Hellboy

by Yvonne Navarro

  “That word,” interrupted Tom Manning, “conceal—”

  “—from the American public—”

  Broom frowned as he watched, but Manning held up his hand to stop the host’s spiel. “Phil—Phil. Hold your little green horses. Let me tell you and the American public one thing. This bureau for…what was it?”

  The multi-screen host blinked. “Paranormal Research and—”

  “Defense,” Manning finished for him. “Right. Well, I’m here to clear this up once and for all.” Manning put on his own professionally made-for-television grin—he did so love to be on the big screen—and looked square at the camera. “There. Is. No. Such. Thing.”

  Broom smiled and headed back to the limo.

  4

  BUREAU FOR PARANORMAL RESEARCH AND

  DEFENSE, NEWARK, NEW JERSEY

  SITUATED HIGH ON A THICKLY WOODED HILL AT THE edge of a bluff, the building complex was low-slung and very high-tech. As if the forest wasn’t enough, it was camouflaged by colors that blended perfectly with its surroundings—even the building foundations seemed fused with the very rock on which they’d been constructed. That same camouflage coloration was etched onto the seven-foot walls that ran around the entire compound, and if that weren’t enough, triple rounds of ultrathin razor wire, visible only if one were specifically looking for it, ensured that not even the birds would land on the wall. A massive gate, closed tightly against the outside world, guaranteed that nothing passed through the entrance without advance scrutiny.

  John Myers brought his flashy red moped to a stop with the front tire just about touching the barrier. He’d thought it was wood, but on closer inspection, he realized it was metal—colored steel crisscrossed with heavy reinforcing bars. He’d been driving in the rain for hours, and when he climbed off the seat, he shuddered at the way his pants, soaked through to the skin, pulled away from the leather seat. He hated to think about what all this water was doing to the stuff he’d crammed into the two cheap suitcases precariously tied to the back of the moped. One of these days he was going to buy some new luggage.

  On one side of the gate was a buzzer, and Myers grinned a little to himself as he pressed it, noting the fake Waste Management sign above the bell. He wondered if that actually fooled anyone, then decided it probably did—he sure wasn’t seeing any reporters hanging around out here in the downpour and snapping pictures.

  “Yes?”

  He jumped at the sound of the voice, surprisingly loud through a speaker so well hidden that he couldn’t spot it. The cold was making him shiver, eroding his attention. “John Myers. FBI transfer from Quantico.”

  For a long moment, nothing happened, then he jumped again as a piece of the stone pillar, something else he hadn’t noticed, folded down on hidden hydraulics. Another beat and a hooded eyepiece and LCD screen scanner slid forward from the opening.

  “Look at the birdie, son.”

  Myers pressed his face obediently up to the eyepiece, willing himself not to flinch because he knew what was coming. Suddenly a violet-colored light scanned his retina, moving back and forth in an instant. A millisecond later his identification and badge numbers flashed on the small screen, an instant after that and the heavy gate gave a clank as it slid open. Myers climbed back on his moped and pushed it through the entrance; when the gate closed solidly behind him, he felt a little bit like he’d disappeared into a strange part of the world that no one else knew about. As he restarted the bike and headed up the road toward the buildings, Myers knew instinctively that this was probably very true in a lot of ways.

  The meandering road led Myers to what he assumed was the main building in the complex. Nondescript from the outside, covered in the same camouflage paint and surrounded by trees that doubtlessly made it look like part of the forest from above, he discovered that the inside was an entirely different story. Lots of marble and mirrors, behind which Myers knew without a doubt lurked security cameras. The thick green plants at the juncture of floor and walls probably hid everything from microphones to gas valves that could be used in a lockdown or other extreme emergency. In the center of the lobby was a massive circular desk made of high-tech, polished metal; behind that waited a solitary guard who watched Myers impassively as he approached. There was no name tag or identifying logo on his gray jumpsuit; in fact, it looked very much like the uniform that a garbage-truck driver might wear.

  Myers put on a pleasant smile as he stepped up to the desk and set down his old suitcases. The reception counter had a high-cut edge that made him feel like a five-year-old in a room full of adult-sized furniture. He resisted the urge to hang his fingers from it—that was way too much like Kilroy Was Here. “Hello. I’m—”

  “Late,” the guard cut in. “Five minutes late.”

  Myers blinked. “Yes, I—”

  “Section fifty-one,” the guard interrupted again. He looked down at something in front of him that Myers couldn’t see. “Step back.”

  Myers stared at him, confused. “Pardon?”

  The guard’s voice was completely emotionless. “Ten steps back, please.”

  Confused, Myers bent and picked up his suitcases, then complied. When he looked at the floor as he backed up, he saw for the first time that he was moving to the center of a giant Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense symbol. The colors below his feet formed the logo, a small triangle superimposed on a fist holding a sword. The initials B.P. were on the left, with R.D. in a matching position on the right.

  “Watch your hands and elbows,” the guard instructed him.

  With a mild lurch, the floor beneath Myers’s feet began to sink and he realized he was on the platform of a small elevator. He grinned. He just loved this high-tech secret stuff—hidden cameras, microphones, shoe phones like in the old Get Smart episodes (he’d tried to build one of those once). Standing on the platform, Myers was still smiling as he sank past floor level and the panel overhead slid shut and let a row of safety lights wink on around the edge of his circle. There were no sides to the elevator and he had to fight a sense of vertigo when he saw that his elevator was just one of a number of others, moving up and down in a vast underground area. The effect was very much like being on a floating disk in the middle of space.

  A cool draft that smelled vaguely like metal and oil kissed the skin of his face, and what he could see of the dimly lit and quiet area—no Muzak here—showed him only more elevators interspersed with the huge support pillars holding up the building above him. His own platform just kept dropping until the light around him blacked out and it finally settled to a stop in a narrow, dark space; an instant later, a band of fluorescent lights buzzed to life, showing Myers that he was inside a cramped circular chamber. On the wall in front of him, painted in huge strokes, was the number 51. To the right of that, recessed into the chamber walls, was a magnificently carved oak door. Not knowing what else to do, Myers gave the door a firm knock.

  No answer.

  There was nothing else to do—no Up button for him to push to go back to the main floor and question the guard—so finally he reached out, turned the knob, and went through the door.

  He found himself walking into someone’s office, or maybe it was a library. There were books everywhere—in fact, the walls were almost made of them, floor to ceiling, on three sides. The soft glow of several reading lamps, the library kind with the soothing green glass shades, bathed everything in an intimate, warm light. In the far corner was a spiral staircase, the old-fashioned style made of wrought iron; it led up into the shadows, probably to an area filled with more books. The machinery smell of the elevator was gone, replaced by the sweeter scents of old paper and leather, tinged somewhere with cedar.

  One wall, however, was different. This one was made entirely of a thick pane of glass—apparently a fish tank. There was clearly water up to the top of it, but it must have been some kind of strange, special glass; none of the reflection came through, no swimming pool-like glimmering or twisting water shadows.

 
; “Turn the pages, please.”

  Myers hadn’t noticed the speaker and now he jumped at the voice that crackled through an intercom next to the tank. Curious, he moved closer to the glass. He thought he’d seen something in there, a shadow moving, something large.

  “Over here, if you don’t mind.”

  A long, sleek form with a face glided past, then disappeared into the dark depths of the water.

  “Jesus Christ!” Myers exclaimed and stumbled backward. He steadied himself, then noticed the four book stands facing the glass, each with an open volume on it. Steeling himself, he leaned close to the tank’s window, wanting to see. Down at the corner, he saw a small sign, barely noticeable: Abe Sapien.

  As if the creature inside knew he wanted to see it, it swam obligingly up to the glass. It wasn’t a fish as Myers had first thought, but a man…with gills. Slender and smooth-skinned, he was dolphin-gray with darker bluish patterns streaking his soft-looking surface. Bright blue eyes shone with intelligence as they regarded Myers, and behind his thick-lipped mouth, slightly darker gills pulsed bubbles into the water. His limbs were long and graceful, moving effortlessly through the water.

  Myers swallowed, then pointed at the books. “These? You’re reading these?”

  The fish man—Abe—nodded, so Myers did the only thing he could: he turned the pages for him. Before Abe Sapien could say anything else, Myers turned in response to a noise behind him. Another man, bent with age and leaning heavily on a cane, came slowly into the room, then smiled at Myers and motioned to the tank. “Four books at once,” he said proudly. “Every day…as long as I’m here to turn the pages.” The old man’s smile widened. “My name’s Broom. Professor Trevor Broom.”

  Myers offered his hand. “Sir. I’m—”

  Myers jerked and spun back to the tank as Abe slapped a webbed hand against the glass behind him, startling him enough to leave his hand hanging in the air while he never finished his sentence.

  “Agent John T. Myers, Kansas City. Seventy-six, ‘T’ stands for Thaddeus, mother’s oldest brother.” Abe’s blue eyes blinked once, then he continued. “Scar on your chin happened when you were ten. You still wonder if it’s ever going to fade away.”

  Myers lowered his hand and gaped at the fish man. “How did it—”

  “He,” Broom said patiently. “Not ‘it.’ Abraham Sapien, discovered alive in a secret chamber at St. Trinian’s Foundling Hospital in Washington.” He raised an age-spotted hand and pointed at the wall, where a small piece of antique paper was sealed inside an expensive frame. “They took his name from this little inscription that was stuck on his tank.”

  Myers walked close enough to see the writing. “Ichthyo Sapiens,” he read aloud. “April 14, 1865.”

  Broom nodded. “The day Abraham Lincoln died. Hence ‘Abe’ Sapien.” The professor made his way back to the tank, then uncovered a tray on a small table next to it. On the tray were four greenish eggs; the stench that wafted from them made Myers gag and reel backward. Broom shot him an apologetic glance. “Rotten eggs—a delicacy. Abe loves them.”

  Broom lifted the tray carefully overhead and slid them into the water through an open hatch. In the tank Abe smiled and executed a smooth, subaquatic bow, then effortlessly nabbed the eggs as they floated through the water.

  Myers watched him, fascinated. “How does he know so much about me?” he finally asked.

  Broom put the tray aside and slid one hand into his pocket as he leaned gratefully against one of the heavy leather visitor’s chairs in front of his desk. “Abe possesses a unique frontal lobe,” he answered. He paused long enough to let this sink in, then continued. “Unique—that’s a word you’ll hear quite a bit around here.”

  Myers nodded. “And where am I exactly, sir?”

  A corner of Broom’s mouth turned up. “As you entered the lobby, there was an inscription—”

  “On the desk, yes. In Latin.”

  “Impressive,” Broom said, unperturbed by the interruption. “Do you remember what it said?”

  Myers rubbed his face and concentrated for a moment, then nodded. “In absentia luci, tenebrae vinciunt.”

  Broom looked pleased. “ ‘In the absence of light, darkness prevails.’ ” He raised one eyebrow and looked steadily at Myers. “For there are things that go bump in the night, Agent Myers.” Despite the faint smile that crossed his features, Broom’s expression suddenly turned quite dark. “We are the ones who bump back.”

  The corridor Broom was leading Myers down was, he’d been told, “Freak Corridor A.” There wasn’t much in the way of overhead lighting; instead, the glass-fronted cases that lined the walls were lit from within; the illumination not only allowed Myers to see their contents but cast enough light to fill the hallway.

  Despite its rather flamboyant title, Myers wasn’t looking at anything that far out of the ordinary. He’d seen weird occult artifacts in a dozen wax museums and carnivals, not to mention the ever-present horror movies. Still, he dutifully scanned the cases as Professor Broom led him past each one. Inside one case was a mummified hand, still showing decaying strings of the fabric, now brown and filthy, in which it had once been wrapped. Past that was a clay golem, one of his favorite creatures in the realm of the supernatural. This one was slightly undersized and clearly dried up; still, if what Myers had read about golems was even remotely accurate, alive—if it ever had been—the golem would have been a fearsome opponent, nearly unstoppable.

  Next to that was a pagan altar, quite lavishly appointed with a pair of obviously solid silver and gold daggers, the heavy handles of which were encrusted with precious stones and deeply carved with lewd figurines. Half-spent candles in red and black flanked the daggers, while tiny golden bowls of unidentified items—possibly herbs and other rather unsavory things—were arranged between the daggers and below the candles in the shape of a pentagram. Myers glanced at the display a final time as he passed, then blinked as he realized that both daggers were stained with the unmistakable residue of dried blood. Very creepy. Concentrating on that, he jumped as Broom began to speak.

  “In 1937, Hitler joined ‘The Thule Society,’ a group of German aristocrats obsessed with the occult,” the professor told him. The old man pointed at the next display, which contained an ancient, broken lance. Myers peered at it, then paused to look more closely. There was something about the artifact that demanded more than a perfunctory glance, and it wasn’t long before he found out.

  “In 1938,” Broom continued, “he acquired the Spear of Longinus, which pierced the body of Christ. He who holds it becomes invincible.” Myers said nothing as he tried to process this piece of information. Invincible? Myers found that notion doubtful, but Professor Bloom sounded as though he truly believed this. Then again, Myers had to admit that he would have never believed a man could live underwater, yet he’d seen just that only a few minutes earlier. Broom’s next words made the old professor’s thoughts on the matter crystal clear and sent a shiver down Myers’s spine.

  “Hitler’s power increased tenfold.”

  They were at the end of the corridor now, entering and exiting through a series of brushed silver pneumatic doors that made quiet shsssh shsssh sounds as they operated. One would open when they stepped up to it, then close behind them before the next would open, extra security and air purification to protect the relics. When the two men had gone through another set, Broom spoke again. “In 1943, President Roosevelt decided to fight back. Thus the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense was born.”

  Myers started to comment, then found himself instead staring at the next two doors. Half a dozen workmen were sweating and grunting as they struggled to replace two of them; there was no need to ask why, but the what of it definitely raised questions. Across the heavy surface were deep, oversized dents, most of which were substantial enough to deform the two-inch-thick metal plates.

  Broom’s voice was pensive as he paused for a moment to watch the workmen. “In 1958, the occult war finally ended wh
en Adolf Hitler died.”

  Myers blinked, then frowned and pulled his gaze away from the new doors being manhandled into position. His mind immediately popped up with a correction. “1945, you mean. Hitler died in forty-five.”

  Broom gave him an enigmatic smile. “Did he now?”

  Myers had always thought he had, but now Broom’s words and his surroundings were suddenly broadening his mind, opening it up to a number of more interesting possibilities. Moving carefully past the workers, at last Myers and Broom reached the final door. It was stainless steel and massive, like a bank vault’s, and Myers had visions of something contaminated and quarantined…and really, really strong…on the other side. Feeding his overworking imagination was a cart on which had been piled a stack of beef and mashed potatoes at least four feet high. It was enough to feed a roomful of soldiers, but they usually wouldn’t all eat off the same plate. Waiting patiently next to the cart was a burly guy in a suit; Myers had seen the type a thousand times before, definitely government, definitely no-nonsense to the general public.

  Broom dug into his vest pocket and pulled out two Baby Ruth bars, then handed them to Myers. “Agent Myers, this is Agent Clay. Follow his lead.”

  Myers stared uncomprehendingly from the two candy bars in his hand to Broom’s retreating back. “You’re not coming?”

  Broom didn’t bother turning around as he gave a small, dismissive wave. “I handpicked you from a roster of over seventy Academy graduates. Make me proud.”

  Before Myers could say anything else, Broom stepped through the closest pneumatic door and it slid shut behind him.

  Shsssssh.

  He turned helplessly to face Agent Clay, but the bigger man only shrugged. “They’re not speaking. Professor Broom had him grounded.”