by Mike Mignola
“You’re that amphibious bloke,” he said.
Abe nodded. “I think you were expecting me?”
“Yeah we were . . . er, sir,” the kid said, clearly flustered. “I’ll . . . er, just tell the guv that you’re here.”
Abe waited patiently as the kid muttered into a radio attached to his breast pocket. When he had finished he said nervously, “The guv says he’ll be down in a minute.”
“Thanks,” Abe replied.
The two stood facing each other, not saying anything, for several seconds. Abe was quite happy to remain silent, but the young PC looked distinctly uncomfortable, and at last he blurted, “Grotty weather, innit?”
“I like the rain,” Abe said.
“Yeah, I suppose you do,” the PC muttered, then reddened. “No offense, sir.”
“None taken.”
The PC grunted, and then, sensing movement, looked round in obvious relief. “Here’s the guv now.”
A lean, sallow-faced man, whose bony wrists protruded from the cuffs of his dark jacket, unlocked the glass-fronted door of the building and pulled it open. He regarded Abe without flinching and held out a hand. “Agent Sapien, good to meet you. I’m Detective Inspector Cartwright. Come on in. Get yourself out of the rain.”
Cartwright led Abe through a large open-plan office, now lit with just a couple of desk lamps, and into a short corridor at the back of the room. In the left-hand wall was an open door, through which Abe glimpsed a large communal kitchen, harshly illuminated by strip lighting, which spilled out into the corridor. Opposite the kitchen was a lift with dented stainless-steel doors. A pair of bedraggled rubber plants flanked the lift, their pots stuffed with cigarette butts.
“The woman’s body was found upstairs in the editor’s office,” Cartwright said, pressing the lift button. “It had been dumped on the desk like a . . . bloody postal delivery.”
Nodding, Abe asked, “Was the office locked?”
“No, but all outside doors leading into the building were.”
“And there was no visible sign of entry?”
Cartwright spread his hands. “Same old story, Agent Sapien.”
“Call me Abe,” Abe said as the lift doors opened. Together he and Cartwright stepped inside.
Cartwright pressed the button for the next floor, then squatted down and pointed at a dark fleck, barely noticeable, on the smooth gray floor.
“This is the only piece of physical evidence we’ve found,” he said.
“Blood?” asked Abe.
Cartwright nodded. “And forensic tests have confirmed it to be the victim’s.”
“So we know the body was carried up from ground level,” Abe said. “I guess that’s something. I take it no other discriminatory evidence has been found?”
Cartwright raised his eyebrows in resignation. “Well, there’s plenty of physical evidence, which we’re still working on. But people are in and out of here all the time. Not wishing to be defeatist, Agent . . . sorry, Abe, but I doubt we’ll find anything useful.”
The two of them went up to the editor’s office, but there was little to see. Abe raised his head and sniffed. Just as at the previous murder sites, he could sense the nearby presence of flowing water. It was like a tugging inside him, a tingling in his skin, a stirring in his blood. He could almost taste its briny flavor on his lips, could almost plot the course of its currents and eddies in his mind’s eye. It gave off a power, an energy, like a ley line or a subterranean electricity supply.
He mentioned it to Cartwright, who surprised him by saying, “That’ll be the River Fleet. It runs right underneath this building.”
“Really?” said Abe. “That’s interesting.” He told Cartwright how he had sensed the proximity of fast-flowing water at the other murder sites. Cartwright pulled a discouraging face.
“Probably just coincidence. If you’re thinking the victim was brought in that way, think again.”
“Oh?” said Abe. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s inaccessible, that’s all. Too many of the channels beneath the city are narrow and filled with water from floor to ceiling. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of those old tunnels are blocked, or have even collapsed. They’re barely maintained these days.”
“And you know this for a fact?” Abe asked.
For the first time Cartwright looked exasperated. “Well, no, but it stands to reason. Believe me, Abe, subterranean rivers are not the answer to this particular locked-room mystery. The real solution is much simpler. Somehow the killers got hold of keys, that’s all.”
“To all three of the buildings in which bodies were found?”
Cartwright shrugged. “Why not? All it takes is a little planning and ingenuity. And these are certainly not random killings or crimes of passion. Sick though they are, a lot of attention has gone into this . . . this spree, or campaign, or whatever you want to call it.”
Abe knew that, to a human, his face betrayed little of what he was feeling, that he had to convey such things as humor or compliance or understanding through words alone.
“I appreciate what you’re saying, Detective Inspector,” he said. “All the same, I’d like to take a look at these underground waterways, if only to set my mind at rest. I mean, what have you got to lose? I’m not a drain on your resources, plus I do have an affinity with water, which you might as well take advantage of.”
He tilted his head in what he hoped was a disarming manner. Cartwright sighed.
“You do realize that that water will probably be contaminated with all sorts of disgusting bacteria?”
“I have a strong constitution,” Abe replied.
Cartwright looked dubious. “It’s your funeral, I suppose.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
They headed back to the lift. Once inside, Cartwright pressed a button marked B.
“The river’s accessible from here?” said Abe in surprise. He had assumed he might have to access the Fleet via the sewers.
“There’s a manhole cover in the basement with a culvert right underneath. We checked it out this afternoon.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Abe said.
“I’d reserve judgment until you see it, if I were you,” Cartwright replied.
Stepping out of the lift into the basement, Abe was surprised not by how spacious and high ceilinged the room was, but by how much it reminded him of the cloisters of a church or monastery. Partly this was due to the central row of pillared arches, which concealed the true dimensions of the room within a series of shadowed alcoves, and gave the impression that beyond the alcoves there could be further doors or corridors. It was not difficult to imagine that there might be an entire network of catacombs snaking off from here, stretching out like roots under the city, connecting buildings in the same way that the Underground system connected train stations.
Though grand, the basement was cold and damp and evidently little used. A pair of bare bulbs, their light diffused by a coating of grime, showed where moisture had leaked through the rough stone walls in slick, glistening patches, or had mingled with bacterial spores to form fuzzy white blotches of mold. Ragged swathes of cobweb, opaque with dust, festooned the ceiling. Some old items of office furniture, spongy and sodden, lolled against the wall, along with a half-dozen lengths of warped timber and a rusted set of stepladders.
Abe saw Cartwright shiver and said, “I guess this must be where the notorious barber dismembered his victims?”
Cartwright looked offended. “That wasn’t why I was shivering. It’s bleedin’ parky down here.”
If Abe could have laughed he would have done. “I wasn’t suggesting you were scared, Detective Inspector. God forbid.”
Cartwright eyed Abe as if weighing him up. Then he asked, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Abe, but do you feel the cold?”
“Not like you do,” said Abe, “but I’m aware of the temperature, yes.”
Cartwright nodded, as if satisfied. “And in answer to your
question,” he said, “yes, this is where the old guy supposedly chopped up his victims, though I’m not sure exactly where he did it. According to the story, there was a revolving trapdoor somewhere in the ceiling, which the barber’s chair was attached to. When the customer was comfortable, a catch would be released, the chair would tip over, and the poor old sod would fall twenty feet to the stone floor below. If he didn’t die from the fall, he’d have his throat cut and be chopped into little bits. Apparently there was a secret tunnel, which ran from here, beneath St. Dunstan’s church and the burial crypt, to the pie shop in Bell Yard. But if that’s true, it was blocked off long ago.”
Abe knew the story, but he couldn’t deny that standing in the actual place where the dastardly deeds were purported to have occurred lent them an added frisson. He remembered what Kate Corrigan had said about this location possessing an occult resonance, about it calling out to bad men. What was it she had actually said? “Some places are steeped in wickedness.” Something like that.
Well, Abe thought, if that was true then he couldn’t sense it. No doubt there would be some within the B.P.R.D. who would. The Bureau had more than its share of psychics, sensitives, clairvoyants. He’d been with a few who had fled screaming from what had seemed to him the most innocuous of places. Hellboy had a theory that the majority of sensitives in the Bureau’s employ were simply attention seekers. “There’s evil here!” he would cry in imitation, adopting his flakiest voice and throwing up his hands in horror. Then he would scowl and mutter, “Yeah? Tell me about it.” Cracked Liz up every time.
“Where’s the manhole cover you mentioned?” Abe asked.
Cartwright pointed into the shadows where the light couldn’t reach. “Just the other side of that arch.” He produced a rubber-handled torch from his pocket, turned it on, and led the way.
Abe might not have been able to pick up evil vibrations, but he could hear the water calling to him loud and clear. If the Fleet proved inaccessible, as Cartwright believed, then he might have to assuage his craving with a dip in the Thames once his night’s work was done.
The manhole cover was the size of a car tire, but it was thin and rusty, and lifted easily with the aid of the crowbar that Cartwright had left here earlier. The DI shone his torch into a stone channel which looked barely wide enough for a child to crawl through, along which brownish water was flowing.
“Jesus,” he said, “it’s even narrower than I remember it. You’ll never get through there, Abe.”
“I will,” Abe said, removing his hat, then peeling off his scarf and coat. “I’m very flexible.”
“All the same, I’m not happy. What if you get stuck? We’re probably breaking all sorts of regulations even contemplating this.”
Though Abe was touched by the policeman’s concern, he said airily, “The channel’s bound to open out eventually. And don’t worry about rules and regulations. I’ve got special dispensation from the U.S. government. I’m fully responsible for my actions.”
“Even so . . .” Cartwright murmured.
Abe turned and placed a webbed hand on the policeman’s shoulder. “Detective Inspector, I’m going in whether you like it or not. This is my call.”
Cartwright sighed unhappily. “Well, like I said, it’s your—”
“—funeral. Yes, I know. And if the worst does happen, you have my permission to send a wreath spelling out the words ‘I told you so.’ ”
Lowering himself into the culvert, his feet either side of the channel of rushing water, Abe felt the chill from the surrounding stonework settling on his skin. It was not an unpleasant sensation. Indeed, being neither claustrophobic nor afraid of the dark, there was an almost womblike comfort to be gleaned from what awaited him. He crouched down, and then slid headfirst into the water, sighing with pleasure as it swirled over and around him.
The culvert was certainly narrow. It extended through the stonework ahead, a circular tunnel barely wider than an industrial drainpipe, beyond which only blackness could be seen. Abe pushed himself forward experimentally. It was a tight fit, but he thought the flow of water and the slickness of his skin would be enough to guarantee progress . . . providing he could make himself as streamlined as possible. Lying full length in the water, he fumbled with the belt buckled around his waist. Losing it would mean having to cope without his gun, his homing beacon, his means of communication and many of the other useful accoutrements he carried about his person, but that was a sacrifice he was going to have to make.
Tugging the belt from under his stomach, he held it up. “DI Cartwright,” he called, “could you arrange to have this sent to my hotel? I’ll be back for it later.”
“Sure,” Cartwright said, his voice muffled by the water. Abe swung his arm round awkwardly in the confined space and tossed the belt up to him. He heard the clatter as Cartwright caught it.
“Thanks,” he called. “Wish me luck.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he plunged his head beneath the water and propelled himself into the darkness.
—
Hellboy was forging through darkness, too, but the only water he had to contend with were occasional drips from the ceiling. Even so, he was cranky enough to swear each time he felt a wet splat of cold on his cheek or neck. The reason for his crankiness was that he was still unhappy about having non-B.P.R.D. operatives accompanying him on his mission. Whatever Tom Manning had said, Hellboy felt ultimately responsible for the welfare of the two guys. It was easy enough for Tom, sitting in his cozy Connecticut office, to be nonchalant about them. To Tom these guys were nothing but concessionary factors in an ongoing process of negotiation with the British authorities. He didn’t have to see them as human beings.
Hellboy did, though. Oh, he had tried to distance himself, had done his utmost to be as businesslike as possible, but the problem was, he couldn’t keep it up. Despite his fearsome exterior, he was a personable guy, and if someone treated him with friendliness and respect, then he couldn’t help but respond.
And these guys had been, and still were, friendly and respectful. It turned out they admired him. Turned out they had volunteered for this mission just for the chance to work with him, fer Chrissakes. If they had been a couple of gung-ho morons, maybe he could have hated them a little for that. But they weren’t; they were competent professionals. They listened to what he said and they took no chances. Apart from the fact that they had no real idea of what they could be facing here today—despite Hellboy’s best efforts to educate them—they were perfect. Their lack of true understanding was certainly not their fault. When it came to fighting monsters, Hellboy knew no amount of preparation was ever enough. The only way to find out how you would react to the hyper-reality of encountering such a creature was to meet one head on. Which was why—if Hellboy was obligated to have any backup at all—he liked being surrounded by people he could rely on, people who had done this kind of work before. The inexperienced were unpredictable. Hellboy had seen battle-hardened army veterans freeze at the sight of their first supernatural entity; on the other hand, he had seen fresh-faced rookies barely out of high school take the appearance of some colossal, slavering swamp monster in their stride.
The two guys alongside him this evening were called Louis and Sean. Louis was a tall, broad-shouldered black man in his mid-thirties, whose easygoing, unflappable manner seemed to radiate stability and assurance. Sean, ten years younger, was sparky, alert, and receptive, but highly disciplined nonetheless. Louis, a Londoner, was married, with a five-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter. Sean was from Aberdeen, and had a girlfriend called Lucy, who was a student at London University.
All this, and more, Hellboy had discovered in the hour or so that the three of them had spent tramping through the black, filthy tunnels of the London Underground. The only other living creatures they had seen in that time had been rats and mice, scampering away from the thin white beams of the flashlights mounted along the sights of the police officers’ assault rifles. The only sounds they
had heard, aside from the crunch of their own boots and the clack of Hellboy’s hooves, had been the rumble of distant trains, powering through tunnels in those sections of the system that hadn’t been shut down.
“D’ye mind if I ask ye a question, Hellboy?” Sean asked as they trudged through the darkness.
Hellboy shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“D’ye ever get scared?”
“Not of the monsters.”
“What then?” said Sean. “What scares someone like you?”
Hellboy swallowed and said, “You know what really scares me?”
“What?” asked Sean.
“Damn fool questions from guys who like nothing better than to poke their noses into other people’s business.”
He spoke in a mild rumble to show that his words should not be taken too harshly. Louis got it straight away and chuckled. “That told you, kid.”
“Aw, man, that’s a cop-out!” Sean said ruefully, but he didn’t pursue the matter. He was astute enough to realize that the subject was closed.
They came to the latest of many intersections. One thing the three of them had discovered very quickly was that the tube system beneath London’s streets was not as straightforward as it appeared on the standard map. As well as the wide, reasonably well-maintained tunnels that carried the trains, there was also a more intricate secondary system of access corridors, maintenance channels, and passageways leading to storage facilities where tools and equipment were kept. Additional to this were the tunnels that led nowhere—that were blocked off, or partly blocked off, or which had caved in. Some of these—the walls caked with soot, the ground inches deep in sludge—led to long-abandoned stations, known as “ghost stations,” of which, they had been informed before heading down here, there were around forty scattered throughout the network.
At the intersection, Louis and Sean stepped forward to flank Hellboy’s muscular form and swept their gun-mounted flashlights swiftly left and right. There wasn’t much to see—more curved, soot-blackened walls; more rails; a few dark areas up ahead that might have been alcoves or side passages.