The All-Seeing Eye

by Mike Mignola

  He held out his hand for the report and skimmed through it quickly. None of the most recent victims had yet been identified, but the four whose heads and limbs Abe had found in the weighted-down sack had now been positively ID’d. They ranged in age from late teens to midthirties. They had drifted into London from different towns and cities across the UK—Hull, Ipswich, Cardiff, and Manchester—and had last been seen alive in just as wide a variety of locations scattered throughout the city. There appeared to be nothing to link them, aside from the fact that they had been homeless and vulnerable—and were now dead and dismembered.

  Hellboy stared at the details of the youngest victim, nineteen-year-old Jennifer (Jenny) Campion. She had originally hailed from Salford in Greater Manchester and had been trying to kick a three-year heroin addiction. Based on Cassie’s findings, it appeared that Jenny and the rest of the victims had died as a result of massive bodily trauma and blood loss. In other words, they had been dismantled while still alive.

  Trying to hide his anger at the appalling nature of the crimes, Hellboy said, “This is quick work.”

  “We British bobbies don’t piss about, you know,” said Reynolds. “Been working through the night, haven’t we.”

  “Well, some of us,” Cassie murmured.

  Before Reynolds could retort, Hellboy said, “Nothing on the train suicide yet, though.”

  “There wasn’t much to go on,” Cassie said. “The guy was literally delivered to me in buckets. We found two fingers undamaged enough to hopefully lift prints from, plus a row of about six teeth. The rest was just soup. Speaking of which . . .” she yawned, stretched, and rotated her head on her neck, “ . . . I’m famished.”

  Hellboy heard the click-crunch of her vertebrae—then became suddenly aware that she was staring at him intently.

  “What?” he said. “Have I got something on my face?”

  “I was just wondering . . .” Her cheeks reddened and she shook her head. “No, forget it. You’ve probably got a million and one things to do.”

  “What?” Hellboy said again.

  Before Cassie could reply, Reynolds barked a laugh.

  “I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed. “Bloody hell, I’ve seen it all now!”

  Cassie scowled. “Get lost, Reynolds, this has nothing to do with you.”

  “You know what she’s doing, don’t you?” Reynolds said, turning to Hellboy. “She’s only bloody asking you out on a date!”

  Hellboy scowled at the policeman. Then he and Cassie both started speaking at once.

  “Not a date! Sod it, Reynolds. Why do you—” Cassie said.

  “I don’t think it’s any—” began Hellboy.

  They clammed up at the same time too. Looked at each other. Cassie was flushed with anger and embarrassment.

  “Go on,” Hellboy said gently, “you first.” He glanced at Reynolds. “And you keep out of it.”

  Reynolds raised his hands, a sneery, amused look on his face.

  Still flushing, Cassie said, “All I was going to say was, I’ve been stuck in here since three this morning and I really need a break. I wondered, therefore, whether you’d like to grab a spot of breakfast? With me, I mean.”

  “Love to,” Hellboy said without hesitation.

  “Oh!” She looked surprised—and pleased. “Where?”

  He shrugged. “It’s your city.”

  She nodded, looked thoughtful. “How . . . conspicuous are you allowed to be?”

  “As conspicuous as I like,” Hellboy said, thinking of the front page of that morning’s Star.

  “Good,” she said. “In that case, there’s this little place I know . . .”

  —

  If there was one thing Proctor had learned over the past twenty-odd years it was that persistence pays. A good journalist might be dogged in his pursuit of a story, but a great journalist (and Proctor put himself in that category) would cling on like a pit bull, refusing to be dislodged, whatever the provocation.

  He had lost count of the number of times he had been threatened with violence. He had even lost count of the number of times he had had violence inflicted upon him. He had been hospitalized on six, maybe seven occasions; on one of those occasions he had almost lost an eye. Yet in spite of everything, he had never been discouraged, never been intimidated, never been frightened off. Over the years his enemies had accused him of lacking many things—integrity, tact, compassion—but one thing they had never been able to accuse him of lacking was courage.

  That was why, even as his story hit the newsstands, he was fully prepared to risk Hellboy’s further ire by staking out his hotel. At five a.m. he was parked outside, hoping to squeeze out one more juicy exclusive before Hellboy and his chums became public domain. The only thing Proctor had not revealed in that morning’s exposé was where the B.P.R.D. agents were staying while in London. However, he knew it would be only a matter of time before the massed ranks of the city’s newshounds sniffed out that particular snippet of information.

  For now, though, Proctor had the march on his rivals, and he intended to make the most of it. Of his three targets, Liz Sherman was the first to emerge, round about nine thirty. Proctor was tempted to follow her and her companion for the simple reason that she was a tasty bit of stuff whom he’d jump at the off chance of catching in flagrante delicto. However, he resisted the temptation, deciding instead to hold out for the big red guy.

  Ten minutes after Liz Sherman’s departure with Richard Varley, Abe Sapien emerged wearing an overcoat, shades, and a hat, jumped into a cab, and was whisked away. And then five minutes later Hellboy himself finally clumped down the hotel steps with DCI Reynolds, one of the officers in charge of the torso-murders investigation, whom Proctor had seen arrive minutes earlier.

  Reynolds was no midget, but Hellboy towered over the man. Proctor hunched down in his car as Hellboy looked around, his lantern-jawed head turning from side to side. Then, apparently satisfied, Hellboy followed Reynolds to his unmarked car and folded his massive bulk into the front passenger seat. As soon as the car eased away from the curb, Proctor was in pursuit.

  They didn’t go far. Just to the private car park alongside the Scotland Yard building on Victoria Street. Proctor parked on double yellows on the opposite side of the road and settled down to wait.

  He waited for over half an hour, keeping a wary eye out for traffic wardens and hoping he wasn’t wasting his time. He was just beginning to wonder whether Hellboy had left by a different exit when his patience was finally rewarded. He jerked upright in his seat as Hellboy appeared around the side of the building, bold as brass, fists clenched and jaw set as if defying anyone to challenge him. What made Proctor feel vindicated in his choice of Hellboy as his primary target was the fact that he now had a sexy little blond with him. Proctor saw her point at something, and next moment she and the big red demon were laughing together like young lovers.

  Proctor poked the long lens of his trusty Nikon out of the driver’s window and rattled off a dozen snaps.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  —

  “This is not good,” Richard said.

  His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he drove. His eyes darted left and right. Liz sympathized with her companion to some extent; it didn’t take a genius to work out that this was a very bad neighborhood.

  All the same, she was not unduly worried. The gangs of mean-faced kids, staring with hostile blankness at them as they drove by, evoked in her not even so much as a flicker of trepidation. In fact, their mannered posturing made her chuckle.

  As they passed yet another gang of kids, Richard hunched down in his seat as if he expected to die in a hail of machine-gun bullets at any moment.

  “Relax,” said Liz, and smirked at him. “I’ll protect you.”

  He glanced at her, too nervous to be amused. “That’s not funny.” He nodded at the crumbling concrete tenements, the graffiti-scrawled walls, the rubbish-choked patches of waste ground. “This is a no-go area.
Run by drug gangs and rife with gun crime. Even the police don’t come here at night.”

  “It’s not night,” said Liz. “It’s ten thirty in the morning. Nearly time for . . . what is it you English have? Elevenses?”

  Richard didn’t answer. He didn’t answer because at that moment a gang of around a dozen kids leaped out from where they’d been hiding behind walls and parked vehicles ahead and started pelting Richard’s car with missiles. Bottles and rocks rained down on the bodywork with a series of dull clangs and the shrill jangle of shattering glass.

  “Shit!” Richard squealed. He stamped on the brake, then slammed the gears into reverse. The engine screeched and suddenly they were driving backward, quickly and erratically, accompanied by the harsh tang of burnt rubber.

  “Watch out!” cried Liz as they missed a parked van by millimeters.

  The kids—ranging in age from nine or ten to about sixteen—gave chase, still fishing missiles from their pockets. The older ones looked murderous, but some of the younger ones were laughing, as though it was all just a game to them.

  Liz held on as Richard, spying a gap between the parked vehicles behind them, slued the car round in a screeching arc. He hit the brakes and the car jerked to a halt and almost stalled. Now it was side on to the charging gang of kids. Liz flinched as another rock smacked into the door just beneath the passenger window.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” she said calmly as the fastest of the kids drew to within yards of them. Richard was hauling on the steering wheel, sweat pouring down his pale face. As the Peugeot began, laboriously slowly, to swing away from the pursuing mob, the biggest and fastest of the kids reached them. He slammed his palms flat against the passenger window, as if to thrust his hands straight through the glass and grab Liz.

  She turned and regarded him steadily. He was a rangy kid, tall for his age, with swirly patterns shaved into his stubble-short hair. He would have been good looking if he hadn’t been mouthing obscenities, his face twisted with hate.

  “Go and play, little boy,” Liz murmured, and, still looking at him, she drew on her power, albeit the barest lick of it. Even that was enough, however, to make him step back from the car, a look of shocked bewilderment on his face. Liz knew what he was seeing: the flames dancing around the tips of her fingers, the sheen of fire in her eyes. She smiled and pulled the power back down within herself. She gave him a little wave as they pulled away, the car finally picking up speed, putting distance between itself and the chasing pack.

  “It’s okay,” Liz said several streets later, “you can slow down now.”

  Richard had to make an effort to ease his foot from the accelerator. When he did he pulled the car into the curb, looking warily around him. “You see?” he said in a tight voice. “What did I tell you about this place?”

  Liz regarded the lecturer not without sympathy. “This isn’t your world. I should never have dragged you into this,” she said.

  “You didn’t drag me into it,” Richard responded. “I volunteered to help, remember.”

  She smiled. “Even so . . . you don’t deserve this crap. The B.P.R.D. will pay for any damage to your car, by the way.”

  “Sod the car,” he said. “It’s us I’m worried about.”

  Liz couldn’t help thinking that he sounded like an anxious lover discussing a rocky relationship.

  “Our physical welfare, you mean?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “What else?”

  “You do know I’ve got certain . . . abilities, don’t you?” she said.

  “I know you can make fire,” he said bluntly.

  A little taken aback, she nodded. “Well, then.”

  “But that doesn’t make you invincible, does it? It doesn’t mean you could . . . well . . . stop a speeding bullet, say.”

  Again she sighed. “If you don’t want to do this, Richard, I’ll understand. You can drop me off here if you like—just so long as you leave me the A-Z.”

  He looked appalled. “Walk these streets? You’d be risking your life. Seriously.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Believe me, this is a cakewalk compared to some of the places I’ve been. Go on, head home. I mean it. I’ll call you later.”

  He huffed out a long, slow breath, hands high on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Concrete tenements surrounded them, some linked by high walkways. The windows were mostly black, like blind eyes. The only visible life at present was a scrawny creature, which seemed more jackal than dog, rooting in an overturned dustbin.

  Liz could see he was thinking hard. She waited patiently for him to come to a decision. Clouds drifted overhead, dark and craggy

  as inverted mountain ranges. Their sedate motion gave the illusion that the surrounding buildings were toppling with a languor that was almost graceful.

  “No,” he said finally, “I’m not abandoning you. I’m not the sort of man who runs away at the first sign of trouble . . . at least, I hope not. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  She grinned. “Is that an English phrase?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Is it? I suppose it must be.” He fished the A-Z out of the foot-well, which is where it had ended up when the kids had attacked, and opened it at the page with the turned-down corner. Studying it, he said, “We can loop round here to Salt Road, avoid this rat run completely.” He handed her the A-Z, pointing at the route. “Let’s get going. The sooner we get out of this dump the better.”

  He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. For the next seven or eight minutes they ran a gamut of hard and hostile stares. Gangs, comprised mostly of teenagers, were gathered everywhere—on street corners beneath vandalized lampposts; in children’s playgrounds where all the equipment was wrecked; in precincts where every retail outlet had been barricaded against attack with steel shutters and wire-mesh screens.

  “It’s like they know we don’t belong here,” said Richard nervously.

  “That’s just paranoia,” said Liz. “They’ve had rough lives, that’s all. They’ve learned to treat everyone as their enemy.”

  They arrived at their destination without further incident. Eden House was as unprepossessing as the rest of the neighborhood buildings, a late sixties, pie-in-the-sky tower block, whose high ideals had long ago given way to neglect and disillusion. Now the place looked less like a “vertical village” and more like a prison. Even the strung-out washing flapping forlornly from the occasional rusting balcony was as gray as the patchy concrete façade.

  The parking area in front of the block was home to a burnt-out car. The blackened vehicle looked brittle as charcoal, perched within a sooty strew of its own debris. The sole signs of life were a couple of kids—one a skinny redhead, the other fat with a bad crewcut—who were listlessly kicking a football back and forth in the forecourt of the adjoining tower block. The skinny kid was smoking, and even from a distance Liz could see that his fingers were brown with nicotine stains.

  As they got out of the car the kids sauntered over.

  “Look after your car for you, mister,” the fat kid said.

  “You mean if I don’t pay you, you’ll vandalize it,” replied Richard.

  The kids said nothing.

  “That’s extortion, you know,” said Richard feebly.

  “How much?” asked Liz, trying to conceal a smile, and touched Richard’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll claim it back on expenses.”

  “Fiver,” said the fat kid.

  “Done,” said Liz, smiling sweetly, “but if you welch on the deal I’ll hunt you down and kill you. Understand?”

  The fat kid blanched and nodded. Liz handed over the money, and she and Richard walked towards the building’s entrance, a pair of double doors in the shadow of an ugly, squared-off porch. The reinforced glass panels inset in the doors were mosaics of glittering fragments, the pieces held in place by wire grids which ran through their centers like sandwich filling.

  They were less than ten yards from the building when a quartet of sh
adows detached themselves from the darkness of the porch and stepped out into gloomy daylight. The four men were twenty or thereabouts, and almost identically dressed in baseball caps and puffer jackets, baggy jeans, and big white sneakers. Two of the guys were white, one black, and the cappuccino-colored skin of the fourth suggested mixed parentage.

  “Where you going?” one of the white guys demanded. He was tall, and muscular as a light middleweight boxer. His stance and demeanor made it evident he was the leader of the group.

  Liz regarded him evenly. “We’re visiting a friend,” she said, no trace of nerves in her voice.

  “Yeah? What’s his name?” said the other white kid. He was shaven headed, lean as a wolf, a trio of big rings in each ear, a stubble of beard on his pointed chin.

  “Credo Olusanya,” Liz said, and added pointedly, “not that it’s any of your business.”

  She noted the brief glances that ricocheted between the four guys, and wondered whether they were responding to the name or to her casual bravado.

  “What you want with him?” The muscular white guy again.

  “Same answer as before,” Liz said smartly.

  The black guy, round faced and big shouldered, frowned as if he didn’t understand.

  “Don’t get smart, bitch,” said the muscle man.

  “Don’t call me a bitch,” said Liz lightly, holding his gaze.

  It was the muscle man who broke the brief standoff. Shifting his glance to Richard, he said, “You. Four-eyes. How you know Credo?”

  Liz sensed Richard tense beside her. Don’t show them you’re scared, she urged him silently.

  To her relief his voice was strong and clear. “We have a mutual acquaintance,” he said.

  The cappuccino guy snorted. Muscle man pulled a disdainful face. “A what?”

  “He’s a friend of a friend,” Liz interpreted.

  “He looks like a cop,” the other white guy said, nodding at Richard.

  “Well, he’s not,” said Liz.

  “Social worker then,” said the chubby guy.

  “Not that either.”

  “You don’t look like friends of Credo,” said the muscle man.