The All-Seeing Eye

by Mike Mignola

  “They’re calling in . . . outside help.”

  This time all Proctor had to do was give Dexter a blank look for the younger man to whisper, “B.P.R.D.”

  “Whoa,” Proctor breathed. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Dexter, “Hellboy.”

  “Holy shit,” Proctor murmured.

  Dexter had been right. This was big. So big, in fact, that there was no way the authorities would be able to keep it secret for much longer. But if Proctor could at least get the exclusive, then he could give the impression he was the man who had broken the story for the good of the UK public, the man who had shown courage, fortitude, and insight to unearth the subterfuge at the heart of the British government. He could pitch his story as a righteous blow for democracy and freedom. The Star would love that. And the punters would lap it up.

  “I can get you information on the incidents reported so far,” Dexter said, “and I can tell you when and where our visitors will be arriving.”

  “What about an itinerary?” Proctor asked.

  “There isn’t one. The assumption is that the B.P.R.D. will run the show when they get here. Apparently Hellboy is very independent.”

  Despite the booze he had consumed that evening, Proctor’s mind was whirring. He presumed that Hellboy and Co. would arrive in the country surreptitiously, which meant a private airfield, almost certainly somewhere near London. If Dexter was on the level it was likely that Proctor would be the only journalist there to witness the arrival of the demonic-looking creature who, in recent decades, had become one of the most recognizable celebrities on the planet.

  “How much do you want?” he asked.

  “Five thousand pounds. Cash,” replied Dexter.

  Is that all? Proctor almost scoffed, but he kept his face straight. To Dexter’s evident surprise, he proffered his hand immediately.

  “Done.”

  —

  “We’re here, HB,” Liz said.

  Hellboy growled like a bad-tempered mutt as she shook him awake. The one golden eye he eventually opened was shot through with blood vessels so dark they looked black.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Didn’t sleep a wink,” he grumbled.

  “That so? Well, you sure snore a lot for an awake guy.”

  Hellboy scowled, cranked his seat into a sitting position and looked out of the window. He couldn’t see much. A gloomy sky, a gray stretch of runway along which they were currently trundling, and, in the distance, some spiny leafless trees.

  All the same, despite the uninspiring surroundings, he felt a tingle of pleasure. Whatever his mood, whatever the circumstances, there was always something special about setting down on British soil.

  His lantern-jawed face gave little away, but Liz knew him well enough to detect even the most subtle change in his demeanor. “Home sweet home?” she said.

  He looked at her. “Just thinking about this little place in Battersea that does the best chicken balti you’ve ever tasted. Take you there if we get time.”

  A few seats ahead of them, Abe, who was looking out of the opposite side of the plane, said, “I spy the welcoming committee.”

  Liz scrambled across the aisle and saw a bunch of besuited and uniformed men standing by the doors of a small, squat building beside a modest aircraft hangar. The men were waiting with grim patience, hands clasped before them. However, the darting glances that passed between them betrayed the fact that most were restless, nervous.

  Liz’s eye was drawn to the two people who stood out among the array of suits and uniforms. One was a young woman, pretty but studious looking, with short brown hair and spectacles. She was wearing a short skirt and an open-necked blouse despite the chill of the day, and her only concession to the weather was the B.P.R.D. jacket she wore draped loosely across her shoulders. The other person was a rangy, good-looking guy in his midthirties with tousled mousy-blond hair. He was behind the young woman, leaning against the wall of the squat, flat-roofed building, hands in pockets. He was wearing jeans, a collarless blue shirt and a rather crumpled cream jacket, and he was watching the approaching jet with a distracted half smile on his face.

  The jet slowed and came to a stop opposite the group. “Time for the floor show, boys,” said Liz.

  Hellboy stood up, the top of his head only a foot or so beneath the curved ceiling. He shook the creases out of his duster and patted the gun holstered on the thick leather belt around his waist. Attached to the belt were various waterproof compartments stuffed with all manner of charms and talismans, technical instruments, and alternate weapons. A couple of the pouches even contained rations, in case Hellboy should ever find himself in the middle of nowhere during a mission—which, truth be told, he frequently did.

  “Ready to meet and greet?” Liz teased.

  “Bring it on,” Hellboy said.

  The pilot had already appeared from the cockpit and was opening the door. He was one of their regular flyers, an ex—air force guy of around fifty called Bud. He had grizzled gray hair cut close to his scalp, but was tougher and fitter than most men half his age. Hellboy liked him because he was straight as a die and never seemed to be phased by anything.

  “How’re Cheryl and the kids?” Hellboy asked him as he clomped towards the exit on his hoofed feet.

  “Doing good,” Bud said. “My youngest, John, just started college this fall. Can you believe it?”

  Hellboy shook his head. “Where does all the time go?”

  Liz was first out on the ramshackle steps that a couple of uniformed grunts had shoved up against the side of the aircraft. She took a deep breath. English air always seemed to smell greener, mulchier, more ancient than it did at home—or maybe that was just her imagination. She looked down at the upturned faces and saw the apprehension and expectation in their eyes. For the thousandth time she wondered how HB coped with it all—not with the fame, though that in itself must be a royal pain in the ass, but the fear, the awe, that those meeting him for the first time never quite failed to conceal. She wondered how many of these people would have known who she was if they hadn’t been briefed beforehand. She guessed some of them might have heard of her, but she doubted they’d recognize her if she passed them in the street.

  And that was just the way she liked it. If she’d been on the cover of Time magazine she’d be living on a deserted tropical island by now. She saw a ripple of reaction go through the crowd below her, heard a slight intake of breath, and knew that Abe had stepped out of the shadows behind her.

  “Cheery-looking bunch, aren’t they?” he murmured in her ear.

  “That’s the stiff upper lip you’re seeing right there,” she replied.

  The metal creaked as Hellboy stepped from the plane and she and Abe were engulfed in his shadow. There was a collective gasp from below. Eyes boggled. A couple of the guys in suits actually took a step back.

  Hellboy sighed. “Here we go again.”

  The three of them descended the ramshackle metal steps. The young woman in the B.P.R.D. jacket stepped forward to greet them.

  “Agent Rachel Turner, London office,” she said eagerly, holding out her hand. “This is a real honor, guys. Welcome to England.”

  She shook hands with each of them in turn. When she got to Hellboy, he said, “I remember you. You’re the sambuca girl.”

  Agent Turner blushed. Liz looked at Hellboy and raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Long story,” he said. “Another time.”

  “Or maybe never,” said Agent Turner.

  Hellboy chuckled.

  Agent Turner introduced them to representatives from the British government, the army, the metropolitan police, the US embassy and MI5. Each of the representatives had prepared a speech of welcome. The embassy guy droned on for a good five minutes about protocol and procedure.

  Liz did her best to look gracious, but was aware that just behind her Hellboy was already fidgeting. “Man, I hate red tape,” he had muttered to her on
more than one occasion, and once he had even memorably scandalized their Japanese hosts by shouting, “Enough already!” and stomping through an elaborate welcoming ceremony that had been laid on for them at Yokohama airport.

  Finally it was the turn of the man in jeans to step forward. Agent Turner started to introduce him, but he said, “It’s okay, Rachel,

  I can do it.” He shook Liz’s hand, then Hellboy’s big stone one, and finally Abe’s webbed one. When he grimaced it was not with distaste, but with apology.

  “I’m sure you’ve had enough of being talked at,” he said, “but I just wanted to say hi. My name’s Richard Varley. I’m a lecturer in Third World Studies at King’s College in London. Soon as I heard about the murders I offered my services to the investigation. I . . . well, I’ve got a few theories of my own, which I wanted to share with you.”

  “Well . . . why not travel back to London with us?” Liz heard herself saying. “We can talk on the way.”

  Varley smiled at her. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d like that. That’s if Rachel doesn’t mind, of course?”

  Agent Turner raised her hands. “Fine by me.”

  All at once they became aware of a commotion to their left. One of the uniformed privates was speaking urgently into a radio mounted on his helmet. Seconds later armed soldiers, who had been strolling casually around the perimeter of the airfield, were converging rapidly on a section of chainlink fence several hundred yards away.

  “What’s going on?” Hellboy asked as Major Beresford, the army guy who had greeted them, approached at a semitrot.

  “Probably nothing,” Beresford said. “One of my men saw light reflecting off what he thought might be metal or glass. I suggest we conclude the preliminaries inside.”

  Hellboy shrugged. “Okay, Major. Lead the way.”

  —

  This is gold dust, Proctor thought, adjusting his position. He was lying, half concealed by bushes, up against the chainlink fence bordering the private airfield. The ground was damp, and muddy water had soaked into the elbows and knees of his crumpled jacket and trousers, but Proctor didn’t care. From his vantage point he had a perfect view of the front of the aircraft hangar, outside which the reception committee for Hellboy and his chums had gathered. The long lens of Proctor’s camera was stuck through one of the holes in the chainlink, and he had been happily snapping away for the last twenty minutes. He had some great shots of the apprehensive-looking officials and the B.P.R.D. operatives themselves.

  And what a sight they were! A good-looking bird whose bulky jacket couldn’t conceal her trim figure, a weird-looking fish-man, and the big red demon himself. Not that Hellboy liked being called a demon, apparently, but bloody hell, what else were people supposed to call him?

  Proctor tingled with excitement at the thought of the expression on his editor’s face when he showed him these pictures later today. As far as Proctor was aware, only a handful of people even knew Hellboy was in the country. This location was so remote, and security so low key (nothing but a dozen or so armed squaddies, aimlessly patroling the perimeter of the airfield), that it was obvious the authorities had been confident they would encounter no intrusion from the press or from curious onlookers. Proctor had parked his car in a layby a quarter of a mile away, and had tramped across a couple of muddy fields to avoid detection, but he was now beginning to think that even these minimal attempts at secrecy had been overcautious.

  He shifted position again as Hellboy and his chums turned to speak to a guy in jeans and a cream jacket, who had stepped forward to shake each of their hands. He could get some full-face shots of the freaks here if he was quick, rather than the profile shots he’d had to be content with so far. As he turned the camera slightly, he noticed one of the armed soldiers turn his head towards him. The soldier was too far away for Proctor to see his expression, but the man’s sudden alertness was enough for the journalist to feel certain he’d been spotted—or at least that a flash of sunlight on his camera lens had.

  Uh-oh, he thought, time to go. All the same, he couldn’t resist rapidly squeezing off a few more shots before scrambling to his feet.

  The soldier was speaking into a radio. And then there were armed, uniformed men running across the airfield towards him. Although Proctor wasn’t scared for his safety (he was confident that the worst that would happen would be that he’d be questioned and his equipment confiscated), he was terrified of losing the story. Heart whacking in his chest, he burst through the bushes bordering the side of the dirt track and began to run.

  The ground was slippery with mud, and he felt horribly exposed out in the open. He ran for perhaps thirty meters, slithering and almost falling a couple of times, before realizing that if he was going to have any chance of escaping his pursuers an alternative strategy was needed. Jumping from puddle to puddle to cover his tracks, he veered towards the dry stone wall on the other side of the road. He glanced behind him to satisfy himself that he was still screened by the bushes and trees opposite, and then he clambered awkwardly over the wall.

  The drop on the other side surprised him a little. The field was at a lower level than the road, and he fell a good six feet into springy, boggy grass. Muddy water instantly oozed over his feet and ankles, waterlogging his shoes. Unable to keep his balance, Proctor fell to his knees. He grimaced, but forced himself to remain silent and motionless, pressing his back against the stone wall.

  After a few minutes he heard shouts, and then the thump of approaching footsteps. He pressed himself even further back against the wall as the splat of booted feet seemed to sound directly above his head. He was certain that at any moment someone would peer over the wall and see him crouching in the mud. He heard shouted orders, and then the rapid-fire thud of soldiers running off up the road in both directions. There then followed a muted conversation—of which Proctor could catch only the occasional word—between what he assumed were a couple of officers. Eventually the conversation stopped, and he heard the sound of receding footsteps. He left it another five minutes and then he tentatively began to move.

  He edged along the length of the wall in a semicrouch towards the corner of the field. Here the wall was bisected by a wooden fence, which seemed to be holding back a surging mass of woodland. Proctor peered over his shoulder, then bolted for the cover of the trees. He was filthy, cold, and wet, and his breath was rasping in his chest, but it would be worth it if he could reach his car and get back to London with his story.

  CHAPTER 3

  —

  “So what are these theories of yours, Mr. Varley?” Abe asked.

  Varley, sitting between Liz and Abe, smiled self-consciously. “Well, it’s Dr. Varley actually. But please, call me Richard.”

  From the front of the Daimler, Hellboy groaned. “Don’t you ever get tired of the info-dumping, Abe?”

  Liz smiled an apology at Richard. “HB, that’s rude,” she said.

  “Sorry,” said Hellboy, and glanced at Richard in the rear-view mirror. “No offence, Dr. . . . er, Richard, I mean.”

  “None taken,” Richard said, and laughed. Liz liked the fact that there was no hint of nervousness or uncertainty in his reaction. Too often people meeting Hellboy for the first time were too eager to please, as if afraid he would tear them limb from limb if they incurred his wrath.

  “You mentioned muti murders,” Abe said, “but as I understand it, muti is simply the Zulu term for medicine—or am I wrong?”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”

  “He reads a lot,” Liz said dryly.

  Smiling, Richard said, “You’re right, of course, Abe. Muti is a catch-all term for African herbal medicine. However, there is a darker, more clandestine aspect to it. Certain sangomas, or witch doctors, have been known to mix body parts with other ingredients to increase the effect of the medicine’s power. Brain matter mixed in with the muti, for example, is said to bestow knowledge or to increase intelligence, whereas breasts and genitals are thought to endow a client wit
h greater virility.”

  “And how widespread are these darker practices?” asked Liz.

  Richard shrugged. “No one really knows. There are reports of muti murders right across northern and southern Africa, but muti encompasses so many different rituals and beliefs that often murders which could be attributed to it are simply swept up within the general melee of lawlessness. Even in South Africa, which has a more centralized system of policing, there are no solid statistics. Muti murder estimates vary from one a month to several hundred a year. There was, however, a recent high-profile case in Grahamstown in the Eastern Cape Provinces. Nine men belonging to a Yoruban cult were convicted of a woman’s murder, in which the victim had her facial skin removed with a scalpel, following which her genitalia, breasts, hands, and feet were hacked off while she was still alive. The reason they didn’t kill her first is because the screams of the butchered victim are said to enhance the power of the medicine. In this case the woman’s body parts were used as the ingredients for a get-rich-quick spell called ukutwalela ubutyebi. The men apparently smeared the woman’s blood over themselves and then ate the parts they had hacked off.”

  “What a sweet little bedtime story,” Hellboy said from the front of the car.

  Grim faced, Liz asked, “And now you think one of these Yoruban cults has come to London?”

  Again, Richard shrugged. “I think they’ve been here a long time, perhaps even years. I think they’ve established a whole subculture which operates beneath the law.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Abe. Liz and Hellboy looked at him as if they couldn’t believe his naiveté. “In such a small and highly civilized country, I mean, where almost every murder becomes a national headline?”

  “I think the Yoruba, if that’s who they are, have become experts at covering their tracks,” Richard said. “Many of their victims are illegal immigrants, children who are bought in African cities like Kinshasa for as little as five or ten pounds and then smuggled into the country. A police inspector recently told me that out of three hundred black children from ethnic backgrounds reported missing from London schools in the first three months of this year, only two have been traced. And these are just the children who are enrolled in British schools. Many more slip through the net and have no official existence in this country.”