The All-Seeing Eye

by Mike Mignola

  “Sorry,” Liz said, “I’m a little raw. Ignore me.”

  “You need some sleep,” said Richard.

  “Tell me about it. But I’m not going to mess my body clock up even more by conking out now. I’ll sleep with the locals.”

  As soon as she realized what she had said, she arched an eyebrow and added, “In a manner of speaking.”

  Richard laughed and pushed the car through a set of changing lights. It was around six p.m. now, and already dark. London was a riot of neon and car headlights. It hurt Liz’s weary eyes a little, so she closed them briefly.

  “What you’ve got to realize about Hellboy,” she said, “is that he’s been in the public eye for most of his life. He’s not comfortable with it, but he can’t do anything about it. It’s not like he can slip on a pair of shades and a baseball cap and melt into the crowd. Everywhere he goes people stare at him, and just by doing that they remind him he’s different. Under the circumstances I think he’s remarkably well balanced and even tempered. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever known.”

  Richard nodded. “You really love him, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said without hesitation. “He’s the best big brother a girl could wish for.”

  Richard had picked Liz up from her hotel twenty minutes before. As soon as they had arrived back at the Old Bloomsbury after their briefing at Scotland Yard, Hellboy had outlined their three-pronged plan of attack for the evening. Liz was to accompany Richard, who had told them he could put them in touch with a sangoma resident in London, who might shed some light on recent events; Abe would visit the murder sites; and Hellboy himself would check out the Underground. They would rendezvous back at the hotel later and compare notes.

  “So who’s this guy we’re going to see?” Liz asked now.

  “His name’s Kobus Labuschagne,” said Richard. “He’s a sangoma from Johannesburg in South Africa. He was forced to flee his country eight years ago after speaking out against the dark practices used by some of his peers. Because of evidence he gave to the police, his wife and two daughters were murdered and their bodies mutilated. Despite this he continues to help the police in the UK. Three years ago the information he supplied led to the arrest of three men and two women, who were responsible for the muti murder of a four-year-old boy whose torso was found floating in the Thames close to Tower Bridge. During the trial he was under a twenty-four-hour police guard. Even today he gets threatened on a regular basis, and several times he’s been attacked.”

  “Brave man,” said Liz.

  Richard smiled. “I told him that once, and he said he was just doing what was right. He’s a great believer in fate. He thinks that whatever ultimately happens to him will be decided by his gods and not his fellow men. He thinks that men are just instruments of the gods, and that whatever he does will not change his fate.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Liz. “So I take it you know this guy well?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Richard. “I’ve met him a few times. He comes up to the college now and then to talk to the students, or to help out in an advisory capacity.”

  Five minutes later Richard turned into a long drive that led to a pair of enormous black iron gates topped by a row of vicious-looking spikes. Through the gates, lit up like a Christmas tree, Liz could see a glittering tower block that seemed all burnished steel and curved glass. Beyond the tower block was the Thames, black as sealskin beneath the night sky, lights sparkling and slithering on its fast-flowing surface.

  “Labuschagne has an office here?” said Liz, goggling at the building.

  “No,” said Richard, “not an office—an apartment. What you’ve got here, Liz, is your archetypal, much-sought-after riverside location.”

  “I never realized witch doctoring was such a lucrative profession.”

  “I don’t think it is,” Richard said, bringing the car to a halt in front of the black gates.

  “How does he make his money then?”

  Richard shrugged. “Stock exchange? Property? Who knows?”

  He got out of the car and approached an intercom located on the wall to the right of the gate. Liz saw him speak. As he walked back to the car, the gates started to slowly and soundlessly open.

  A few minutes later the two of them were stepping out of the lift onto the eleventh floor of the apartment block. From the carpets to the wallpaper to the fixtures and fittings, the entire building seemed to exhale wealth and luxury, elegance and taste.

  Beautiful though the place was, however, it set Liz’s teeth on edge. To fit in here a woman ought to be tall and graceful; she ought to be wearing an evening dress and an ermine wrap and carrying a Chihuahua. Liz, by contrast, was dressed in combat pants and scuffed boots, and wore a battle-worn canvas jacket over a black T-shirt faded to gray from too much washing. Her hair, greasy from traveling, was scraped back into a ponytail, and instead of a Chihuahua her only accessory was a 9mm automatic holstered at her hip.

  “I feel a bit underdressed,” she confided to Richard as they approached Labuschagne’s door.

  Richard smiled at her. “You look fine. Great, in fact.”

  The end of the corridor was shaped like the prow of a ship. Beyond a steel handrail, a vast curved window afforded them a spectacular view of the Thames and the sparkling lights of the city beyond.

  Richard rapped on the door of flat number 1101. After a brief pause it was opened by a handsomely chiseled black man in his mid-forties. He was immaculately attired in a Savile Row suit, gold cuff links, and a pink silk tie.

  “Good evening, Richard,” the man said in a voice that made Liz think of liquid chocolate. “Good evening, Miss . . . Sherman, isn’t it?”

  “Liz,” she said, covering her uncertainty with a brusqueness she immediately felt she should apologize for.

  “Liz,” Labuschagne acknowledged with a serene smile. “Please, both of you, come in. Make yourselves at home.”

  He led them along a corridor into an airy, spacious living room, the design of which was modern, clean, streamlined. Abstract art in muted colors adorned teal walls; sharp-angled chrome furniture upholstered in cream fabric was arranged just so. The expansive window, unadorned by curtains, shimmered with a million points of twinkling light from across the river. The pale wooden floor was polished to the consistency of ice or glass.

  Although Liz hadn’t quite known what to expect, it certainly wasn’t this. She guessed she’d been anticipating something more . . . ethnic. Earthy. Something that gave more of a clue to Labuschagne’s background and culture. Oddly her own presumptions made her a little uncomfortable. If there were two kinds of people Liz hated in the world, it was bigots and zealots. Both of those were characterized by their small-mindedness, their tendency to generalize, to lump people into preconceived parameters based on such vagaries as skin color, sexual preference, religious beliefs—or even whether they had horns and cloven hooves. Liz, however, had always prided herself on taking people as she found them, judging them on their individual merits. But wasn’t she now doing exactly what she hated—making assumptions based on what amounted to pretty limited information? What, deep down, had she really expected Labuschagne to be like? Had she expected him to be dressed in animal skins and a feathered headdress, to be crouched in front of a boiling cauldron and casting handfuls of bones upon the ground? Would she have been less surprised if that was what she had found? To cover her embarrassment, she gripped the sangoma’s outstretched hand and gushed, “You’ve got a beautiful place here, Mr. Labuschagne.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” Labuschagne said, smiling again, “but please, call me Kobus.”

  Although Liz rarely made snap decisions about anybody—experience had taught her to be wary of first impressions—she decided that she liked this man. There was a genuineness about him, and also a gentleness.

  “Kobus it is,” she said, returning his smile.

  He leaned forward and raised
his eyebrows mischievously. “I generally have a cognac around this time. Would you care to join me?”

  “Why not?” Liz said.

  Labuschagne waved them to a seat, then crossed to a chrome-and-glass cabinet and produced a cognac which resembled a giant crystal egg, and three enormous brandy glasses. He poured a generous measure into each glass and handed them to his guests before taking a seat opposite them, his back to the panoramic window.

  Liz took a sip of her drink—and blinked as her tastebuds exploded with delight.

  “I’m not usually one for cognac, but that’s wonderful,” she said.

  “Hennessy Ellipse,” Labuschagne confided, and gave a guilty shrug. “It’s my greatest indulgence. Appallingly decadent, I admit, but it salves my conscience a little if I get the chance to share it with friends.”

  Liz took another sip, wondering how much a bottle of this stuff was. Labuschagne had named the cognac as if he expected her to know it, but she was no connoisseur. She glanced to her right, her eye caught by something on a table next to the window. Propped beside a lamp with a tall stem were a pair of photographs in a curved metal frame. One depicted a smiling woman in a headscarf, who was half bent over a wooden tub. The other was a head-and-shoulders shot of two laughing girls with their arms around each other. The girls were maybe nine and six, and the older of the two had gaps in her wide grin where her milk teeth had fallen out. Both girls had beads and ribbons meticulously threaded into their tight twists of black hair. The woman and the two girls were bronze skinned and beautiful.

  Liz remembered what Richard had told her about the sangoma’s wife and daughters, and her throat tightened. Her attention flicked almost guiltily back to Labuschagne. His dark eyes transfixed her own.

  “My wife Reta,” he said softly, “and my daughters Sakile and Kamali. Do you know what happened to them, Liz?”

  She nodded. “Richard told me.”

  Labuschagne leaned forward, swirling the liquid in his glass. “It is because of them, and thousands like them, that the war against evil must be fought every day. We must look it in the eye, Liz, and never flinch. We must strain every sinew in our efforts to eradicate it.”

  “For me that’s pretty much a job description,” Liz said. She placed her glass carefully on the wooden floor, as if acknowledging that it was time to get down to business.

  “Richard tells me you might have some leads on the torso murders?” she said.

  Labuschagne nodded. “I know of certain individuals in London who have had dealings with Yoruban death cults. Some are new to this country, whereas others have been living here quietly for some time. It is possible that the recent killings are part of some long-planned invocation ritual, or even that a single individual is attempting to achieve apotheosis via a sustained campaign of sacrificial murder.” He shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “I must admit to being a little perplexed, however. From what I understand of these crimes, although the victims bear many of the hallmarks of ritualized murder, the crimes themselves seem to be . . . what’s the phrase . . . a departure from the norm?”

  “Because the victims are white, you mean?”

  “Partly that. And also because the perpetrators seem to have made no effort to conceal their crimes. On the contrary, the victims have been placed in highly visible locations—as if the killers wish to advertise their handiwork.”

  Richard leaned forward. “That’s what’s been puzzling me too. Most of the practitioners of bad muti in this country would be here illegally, wouldn’t they, Kobus?”

  Labuschagne nodded. “If not the sangomas themselves, then certainly a proportion of their followers. What you have to understand, Liz, is that muti slayings are clandestine crimes. These latest killings are totally uncharacteristic.”

  “So if these are muti slayings—and at the moment that’s just a theory—then for them to come into the open, there must be something big going down?” Liz said.

  “I would assume so. Though I can’t imagine what it might be.”

  “Any Yoruban festivals coming up? Ancient legends or prophesies I should know about?”

  Kobus and Richard looked at each other, both pulling the same blank face.

  “If you want my opinion . . .” Kobus began.

  “I do,” said Liz.

  “I believe you should look closer to home. I believe your killers are using the muti angle as a smoke screen to mask their true intentions. I believe the bodies are offerings to some . . . unknown deity.”

  “Bloodless offerings,” amended Liz.

  Kobus pursed his lips. “In which case the blood has most likely been used in a separate ritual. Wouldn’t you agree, Richard?”

  “It’s a reasonable theory,” Richard conceded.

  Reflectively, Liz said, “But even if you’re right, the killers would have to have some knowledge of muti practices, wouldn’t they? Which means they might still have had some contact with the people you mentioned.”

  “Or they could just as easily have looked the information up,” Richard said.

  “True. But we have to follow whatever leads we’ve got.”

  Kobus drained his glass and stood up. “Let me give you some literature. Please, finish your drinks. I won’t be a moment.”

  He walked across the room, so light of step that his feet barely made a sound on the wooden floor.

  Richard sipped his drink and watched him go. Liz watched him too, but without turning round. Instead she followed his retreating reflection in the expansive window.

  When he was out of earshot, Richard said, “So what do you think?”

  Liz shrugged. “I think we pursue every angle. We search methodically until we find something.”

  “Like policemen,” said Richard.

  Liz narrowed her eyes, uncertain whether he was making fun of her. “I guess so. It’s part of the job.”

  Richard smiled. “Hellboy always makes it sound so much more exciting. I read a couple of magazine interviews with him before you arrived. He gives the impression that you guys just fly around the world punching things into submission.”

  Liz smiled now too, albeit ruefully. “That’s wishful thinking on his part. The procedural stuff frustrates him. He’s an action-oriented kind of guy.”

  Kobus came back into the room, carrying a clear plastic folder and a couple of books, their leather covers stiff and faded with age. Handing them to Liz, he said, “You might find these useful. One is a glossary of African spirits and deities, and is the most exhaustive text I know on the subject. The other is a history of the Yoruban people. I’ve marked the chapters which detail their customs and beliefs.”

  “Thanks,” Liz said. “I’ll pass these on to Abe. He’s our book guy. And rest assured, he’ll look after them as if they were his own children.”

  Kobus acknowledged this with a smile, then held out the plastic folder. “I spent most of the afternoon compiling this for you. It’s a list of people in London who have been previously associated with Yoruban death cults, or involved in unscrupulous muti practices. None have criminal convictions in this country, but don’t let that fool you, Liz. Please know that each and every one of those named here has the potential to be very dangerous.”

  As Liz took the folder from him, the sangoma placed a hand over hers to emphasize his words. His skin was cool and dry, like a reptile’s.

  She raised her head and looked him in the eye. Softly she said, “Don’t worry, Kobus. I can be pretty dangerous myself.”

  —

  The great thing about London in October, thought Abe, was that a guy could get away with a big overcoat, a wide-brimmed hat, and a scarf without attracting so much as a second glance. Not that he was generally in the habit of covering himself up like the elephant man, but in this instance it was simply convenient.

  For now, the B.P.R.D.’s involvement here was still a secret, not least because the British press were such a pain in the ass that it was feared their jackal-like behavior might hamper the investigati
on should they decide to turn Hellboy’s presence into a media circus. And so far Abe’s disguise had held up, and he had managed to move from place to place with impunity. He had already checked out two of the murder sites, at Russell Street and Great Queen Street, and was now on his way to the third. He hadn’t found out much that he didn’t already know, although in both places, hyper-attuned as he was, he had sensed the presence of rushing water close by.

  Had it merely been the sinewy power of the Thames? It was possible, though Abe had had the impression that the flow of water was considerably closer to him than the nearby river. He had filed the information away in his mind, deciding that if nothing else more concrete turned up at this third location, then he would backtrack and investigate further. He was aware that London was riddled with hidden streams and tributaries, many of which flowed deep underground, and that its sewage system, cavernous and Victorian, was almost a city in itself. But even so, the notion that he was perhaps missing something important wouldn’t stop niggling at him.

  The offices of the Dundee Courier at 186 Fleet Street were cordoned off with yellow-and-black police tape. A lone uniformed PC was standing outside in the drizzle when Abe’s driver eased to a halt on a double yellow line on the opposite curb.

  Keeping his head bowed and his hat pulled down low, Abe climbed out of the car and hurried across the road, which was slick with rain and sheened with the shattered umber reflections of streetlights. At least the weather had driven the rubberneckers and the press away, he thought. The PC, who looked barely out of his teens, stepped forward as Abe approached.

  The kid peered at Abe’s proferred ID with a scowl, water dripping from the brim of his domed helmet. All at once his eyes widened. As Abe raised his head, revealing his face, the young PC gazed at him with something like awe.