Influence

Pt 4

Wallace stood over the stranger’s corpse, mouth agape and eyes wide.  Surely he couldn’t have been the one to do this.  But the blood on his hands said otherwise.  It told an entirely different story, a story Wallace could hardly believe was true. 

It had been six weeks now since he’d sold his soul to save Trevor.  Six weeks since he’d given it all up for the only person in his entire life he gave a fuck about.  He remembered it like it was yesterday thoug.  Vividly, Wallace recalled the dark figure cutting his hand, using the blood to write something in its dark book, making a deal that cost him everything…

He closed his eyes.  Now was not the time to get lost in his thoughts.  No. Now was the time for action.

The first thing he did was catch his bearings.  There was no way to successfully avoid detection unless he knew exactly where he was at.  It seemed to be an old alleyway, likely in the less wealthy side of Pennington.  But he wasn’t sure. 

“Stay here, buddy.” He told the corpse.

Walking the length of the alley, he poked his head around the corner to examine the street and its buildings, hoping to get some kind of an idea as to his location.  It was nighttime, and thankfully there were no pedestrians to inquire about the blood that stained his hands. 

He saw the large, glowing neon sign that indicated a strip club.  He knew exactly where he was at now, because it was the only club in Pennington.  The citizens of the town, in their conservative nature, had tried their best to make the owner relocate somewhere else.  Despite this, the club was regularly packed full, a testament to the hypocrisy of at least the men in the town.  Not too bad for a place named “Bouncing Betty’s.”

Knowing that he was in the shady part of town was bittersweet.  It meant he was far from home, but that also made him less of a suspect.  The closer you are, the more likely it is that you’re the one who did it.  This was a philosophy that sometimes held true, but in Wallace’s particular case, certainly did not. 

It would have been nice if he remembered how he had got here.  Hell, it would have been nice if here remembered where he’d been for the last few hours.  The last thing he knew he was on his way home from work, and the night sky told him it was at least 9 or 10.  The deadness of the street told him it was probably later.

So there 5 or 6 hours unaccounted for, give or take.  He wasn’t sure if he’d blacked out or what, but it certainly wasn’t any fun not knowing what the fuck your body had been up to while your mind was away.  It was like being drunk, except Wallace knew he’d had nothing to drink since that fateful night at the bar.  Needless to say, him and Trevor had come to the conclusion that drinking probably wasn’t all that great of an idea anymore.

“Well. Not out in public, in this racist, backwater, hick-town.” Trevor had said.  A statement Wallace couldn’t have agreed with more.  In some ways, Wallace longed for his old life in the ghetto. At least then, you knew who your enemies were.  In a town like this, everyone was two-faced…everyone had secrets.  Kind of like Wallace now, and the body-count he’d been accruing over the past few weeks. 

As he made his way back to the corpse, he only wished that this was the first time it had happened.  But actually, it was the third.  The first two victims, as far as he knew, had been scumbags.  Drug-dealers.  Low-lifes.  One of them had even been a certified sex offender, damn near caught in the act with a fourteen year old girl.  He was 48. 

Wallace had actually known that man, Barry Johnson, before.  He had covered the story when it dropped a few months ago, sending the community into chaos.  Half of them wanted his head, and half of them were urging the odd couple to get married.  The worst thing he received was the sex offender tag, required therapy, house arrest, and a bad reputation.  That was…until Wallace had apparently gotten ahold of him.