Room 2A

Finally, the long drive was over. Detective P. Bear pulled into the cheap hotel where he had tracked the killer. It was going to be a long night. 

The sweat of 800 miles of asphalt, with no AC, to wash off in the shower would have to wait. First a shot of Jameson. Irish whiskey had been his sidekick since his partner had been shot 10 years ago. The cold-blooded bastard, Jeffries,  had killed  his partner his wife  and their daughter.  For what?  For a stereo  and a little silver. Or that was the story that was released. Bullshit!

As the warm whiskey slowly crawled down his throat, the cold rain fell outside. "How poetically...perfect," he mused. Phineas upholstered  his Sig and laid it on the nightstand next to the bottle of Black Label on the off chance Jeffries went hunting before dawn. Methodically, he placed his knife near the Sig, before removing his fleur-de-lis pendant given to him by his son. 

"Damn it," he thought, "why hasn't she called? It's been 2 days." He had met the woman of his dreams 2 years prior and they had fallen in love. "Focus, man, focus! The times finally here! Ten long years I've awaited this moment. I hope I don't have to shoot him. I want to hurt him real bad, and then let the judge have him." Phineas took another sip of whiskey and relived the memories of he and his partner touring in Central America and the late 80s.  They've been through High School, boot camp and the jungle together. They had decided to remain a team as law enforcement officers after their enlistment was up.

P felt migraine coming on. He grabbed the bottle of "amber answers" and tried to get to make sense of it all, but he knew there was no means to justify the end of life. He had seen enough death in the jungles of Columbia.

Written Dec 31, 2017