Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

disconcerting than walking down a deserted street, your footsteps echoing through the heavy damp of a New Orleans night. The faint noise from the remaining revelers near the heart of the Vieux Carre was barely a whisper on an imagined breeze. A trickle of sweat tickled down my spine and I tried not to imagine an 'X' marking a spot. I knew that somewhere behind me, our rat in cowboy boots was following along with at least one of his cohorts. Although we both had thought we could make out three distinct shapes just beyond the iron carriage gate, we couldn't be certain until I was already out the door and being followed. Stalked. Hunted .
    Travis had my back. I knew that. But we also knew that it was stupid for us to try to take these three down alone. Under ideal circumstances, you try to find out as much as you can, in order to build the best possible case for the District Attorney. We'd had no leads to start with…all we knew, or suspected we knew, was approximately every ten to fourteen days for the past three months, a gay black man had been beaten shortly after having sex with a white male he'd met in a bar, or in the case of victim number two, in a Laundromat. These cases were similar to crimes that occurred ten years earlier in Baton Rouge. The beating and sexual assault was escalating and evidence indicated three men were involved.
    There were no phones to tap, no witness identifications, no links between the victims or the white males who'd been sexually active with the victims. What we had was location, opportunity, and a probably motive. And now what we had was me.
    If we shut down for a week until the political climate was more to the mayor's liking, these men would target some other victim. As Mejeda had said, the group's level of violence was escalating. If we removed me as a likely target until the timing was more convenient, then these pricks would just pick another victim. No … despite the stupidity of the situation, it was the only thing we could do that made sense.
    I slowed my pace slightly, just as Travis and I had planned. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been listening. Footsteps sped forward, and then suddenly a swipe of air near my head brought me up short. I spun to find the one thing we thought we couldn't count on. Detective Gauthier had arrived. The cavalry was here. I pulled my weapon and turned my back on him to face the men following me. When the first blow came from behind me, I was knocked me to my knees. The second blow had my right hand and arm hanging numbly by my side. My gun clattered uselessly to the sidewalk.
    Suddenly, I was surrounded. Three hate-filled faces looked down at me: the rat-faced cowboy, Gauthier, and a tall, skinny man who would have looked at home in a zombie movie.
    "God damn it, Trudeau, wait until I search him," Gauthier yelled.
    That was the only warning that another blow was coming. I managed to dodge my head, and the dead-looking Trudeau caught the shoulder of my already ruined right arm with a steel pipe. I bit back a scream. I tried to roll, only to bump into rat-face's cowboy boot with my cheek. Then they closed in, kicking at me in a heated frenzy, not selective about location, just about inflicting pain. I scrunched myself into a ball and tried to protect my head. Christ, where was Travis …
    I fought off the dark that threatened to overtake me. It would be the kiss of death. I thought of Jerome, of the forced fellatio, the rape. He'd been a gentle man who had died alone and afraid. It wasn't going to happen to me. I twisted and turned to avoid another swipe of to the head from rat-face's cowboy boot.
    "Boudreaux—" I yelled, racked with pain, desperate to stay conscious.
    "Surprise, gay-boy. Lover boy's not coming. You thought you could get away with treating me like shit?" Gauthier said as he cranked back the bat to swing at my head like it was a fastball. As the bat cleared his shoulder, I pulled my ankle piece. Holding it left-handed, I aimed at his chest, and without hesitation I pulled the trigger. Gauthier's mouth opened, formed a silent "O" before his knees buckled. Then in slow motion, he tilted forward and his face slapped pavement with the wet sound of meat hitting sidewalk. Dead.
    From a distance I heard the shouts. "Fuck you. Goddamn motherfucking racist pigs. Gonna fucking kill you…" It took me a minute to realize the person screaming was me. I pointed my gun at rat-face, and the bullet caught him in the back as he turned to