Simple Intent by Linda Sands Read Free Book Online Page A

when the right ones failed him. 
    Berger pulled onto Stallion Lane, raised his tinted windows and turned off the engine. Parked under the big elm across from a simple green and white Cape Cod, he pulled out a worn notebook and a pen.
    A blue mud-splattered minivan shared the driveway with a sleek silver Miata. The bright floral cushions on the porch rockers looked brand new, and a small purple bicycle he’d never seen before leaned against the porch railing. As a trained professional, Berger noticed these things. What he failed to notice was the mailbox where ‘Berger’ was now painted over with ‘Johnson’. It didn’t matter. To him, this would always be his home.
    He jotted a few notes, thinking for a moment she would come out to the car the way she used to and tap on the window and blow him kisses, mouthing the words ‘I love you’. He blinked and the image was gone, replaced by a snarling monster, one that called him a fuck-up and a loser, one that sent divorce papers to his motel room and shipped his clothes COD. The same monster that had moved out in the dark of the night, took away the baby he’d hardly held and moved in with a man who used to call him Pal. 
    The blinds in a room on the second floor twisted shut and Berger started the engine. “I’ve got my eye on you, Bitch.” 
    He pulled away from the curb, angling toward a racing squirrel then smiled at the satisfying pop. Berger drove his killing machine too fast across town, gliding through stop signs, straddling the dotted line. 
    He rolled up the cracked concrete driveway of a tiny 1950s ranch, revved his engine before killing it, then snatched up the pharmacy bag and coffee cup from the console and slammed the door of the Impala. 
    Berger heard the toss and slap of rolled papers hitting pavement, as the paperboy made his way down the street. The kid did a shitty job. Most times the thing landed nearer to the mailbox than the front door. Berger walked to the end of the driveway, poured the remaining dregs of convenience store coffee on his neighbor’s roses and waited for the little twerp. 
    The boy approached on a bike that seemed too small, tossing papers left and right. Walkman blaring: he didn't stand a chance when Berger stepped out armed with a full trashcan. 
    “Hey! Watch it. You almost dented my trash can.” Berger laughed. 
    “Asshole!” The boy brushed himself off, gathered his papers and flipped Berger the finger as he rode away.
    Berger said, “Damn kids. No respect.”
    It took a key, a foot and a shoulder to force the stubborn front door open and when it closed behind him, his tough guy demeanor dissolved. Standing there, among all the things she’d left behind, he could hear her: “If you don’t do something, you’re gonna end up just like them. Just like those losers.” 
    She was right. He dropped his keys on the coffee table and sank into the worn corduroy couch, rubbing his finger where the ring used to be. 
    “I’m one of the good guys,” he whispered, opening the pharmacy bag. “I’m one of the good guys," he repeated, swallowing the pills. “I am one of the good guys!” he shouted then began to cry.

    Hours later, as the sun strained through the vinyl-backed curtains, Berger woke. In the bathroom he stripped, adding his clothes to the pile of laundry on the floor, then stood in the shower for a very long time. 
    Detective Hiram Berger scrubbed his bloated body with a sliver of soap and made a mental list of all the things he needed to do today.

    Ray Bentley dropped an armload of folders on the table in the Graterford SCI Law Library. He sorted the stacks and was just about to sit down when he heard the scuffling start.
    “Ooof! Fucker!”
    A disagreement that may have stopped at a few unkind words, or maybe even a shove on the outside, could escalate into a full-blown fight, or even homicide, behind prison walls. Ray hesitated for a minute, not wanting to get involved, but when they smashed into the