Free Sigma Curse - 04 by Tim Stevens Page A

this theory. A theory which says you guys took Dale Fincher along with you as some kind of court jester. Somebody you could amuse yourselves with, while you pretended to be his friend. Because I think Fincher was gay. Firmly in the closet, but gay nonetheless. And you knew it. All of you. You probably mugged it up behind his back, sneering at him, but never let on to him that you knew which way he swung. Why, I don’t know. Maybe it boosted your sense of your own masculinity. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
    Austin was still staring at him. Craddock held the bloody wad of tissue paper in his fist, clenched his teeth, and kept his eyes shut.
    Venn continued: “When Fincher was approached by this hot woman in the bar, you thought it was hilarious, didn’t you? You egged him on. Wanted him to be made a fool of, because he was forced to keep up this pretense that he was straight. You laughed when she led him away. You thought he’d come crying back to you. But he didn’t. Then, next day, when you learned he’d been murdered, you felt guilty as all hell. Because you could have stopped him from going with her, and you didn’t. So now you’ve got this massive weight of shame and guilt pressing down on you. And that’s why you’re here, on a work night, getting a load on in some tacky bar. You’re trying to blot out the knowledge of who you really are.”
    He paused, raised his eyebrows once more.
    “Pretty crazy theory, huh? What do you guys think?”
    Austin broke eye contact finally. His head sagged onto his palm.
    “Jesus, man,” he said.
    Craddock muttered, his teeth still clenched: “You’re wrong. I don’t feel guilty at all.”
    “Why’s that?” said Venn.
    Craddock looked at him, hard. Enunciating each word carefully, he said: “That god damn fag deserved everything he got.”
    Austin whipped his head round sharply. “Ryan. Shut up -”
    “No, no,” Venn said. “I’m interested. Carry on.”
    Craddock turned on his stool so that he was facing Venn down the counter. “Yeah. You heard me. The guy was too much of a pussy to admit what he was. Yet still, he dared to live and work among us. Among men. Pretending he was a soldier, a tough guy. Did we laugh at him? We did, yeah. So what? You can’t take knocks like that, you don’t belong in the US Army. You’re such a weakling a few jibes and taunts get under your skin? What the hell are you going to do when you’re under enemy fire? Piss your pants?”
    Venn eyed him for a few long seconds. He was aware of the bartender sidling down the counter. The guy looked at the cracked whiskey glass, the blood stains on the counter top.
    “Hey. You all right?” He peered at the red ball of tissue paper in Craddock’s bunched fist.
    “He’s fine,” said Venn. “At least, his hand is.”
    The bartender looked from Venn to Craddock and back. “Everything okay here, guys?”
    “Yep.” Venn slid off the stool. “I was just leaving. I got what I came here for.”

Chapter 9
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    T he cold was bracing as he stepped out of the smokey light and warmth of the bar. His Jeep was on the far side of the parking lot, down a slight slope. He walked toward it at an unhurried pace, counting slowly.
    One thousand and one. One thousand and two.
    Behind him he heard a flare of music and conversation as the doors opened and then swung shut again.
    Casually, without breaking his stride, Venn turned.
    Craddock and Austin were heading toward him. There was nobody else in the parking lot.
    Venn stopped. His spread his arms wide.
    “Help you gentlemen?”
    They continued advancing. Venn felt the weight of his Beretta inside his jacket.
    There was no way he was going to use it, or even draw it.
    “Calling me a fag,” Craddock muttered.
    Beside him, Austin looked less sure of himself, but he had the springy lope, the slightly hunched posture, of a man ready for combat.
    Venn kept his arms splayed, his torso fully exposed.
    “You sure you want to