The All-Seeing Eye

by Mike Mignola

  “Nothing so far. Just thought I’d let you know where I’m at.” Quickly she filled him in on what she had learned, and of her intentions. “So where are you and Abe?”

  “Sitting right outside, staring at a closed door. It’s a thrilling pastime. You should try it.”

  She smiled at his dry humor, but she could hear the frustration in his voice. “Hang in there, big guy. If I find out anything more I’ll call you.”

  She expected him to say okay and end the call, but he hesitated. Before she could ask him what was wrong, he said, “It won’t change how we do things, but I guess you should know—they’ve got Cassie.”

  “Damn,” Liz said quietly. “I’m sorry, HB. What happened?”

  Briefly he told her about the phone call.

  “Okay,” said Liz, “well, I guess that makes it doubly important that we get these bastards. Talk to you later.”

  She put her phone away, listened for a moment, then opened the door of the toilet. The corridor was still deserted. She could hear nothing but the same murmur of voices she had heard before and the occasional extra-loud snort or groan from behind the door of the dining room. She walked boldly up the corridor towards the kitchen door, thinking that if anyone challenged her now she would claim she was hungry. She reached the door and tried it. It was still locked. Good. She put her ear to it and listened for a moment. Silence. Okay, now to check on the dormitories upstairs.

  She ascended to the second floor, gritting her teeth at each creak of the wooden staircase. She reached the top and was making her way along the corridor towards the dormitories when a door beyond them—the door that led into the games room—abruptly opened and the tough-looking guy who had served her supper stepped out.

  Liz could only assume that he had heard the stairs creaking and had come out to investigate. He was holding a copy of the Racing Post and from the expression on his face it was clear that he had expected to see someone he knew. This again supported the notion that the food had been drugged. Otherwise, why would the guy have been so surprised to encounter a resident?

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he said, his expression changing from shock to aggression.

  Liz thought quickly. She allowed her head to droop and shambled towards the man, weaving from side to side, as if she was indeed heavily drugged and fighting desperately to keep awake.

  “Oi,” the man said, “where do you think you’re going?”

  He marched up to Liz and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. She felt his strong thumbs digging into the muscle below her shoulder bones, but she forced her face to remain slack. She mumbled incoherently, and rolled her head loosely forward as if she were finding it too heavy to keep upright.

  “You what?” the man said aggressively. “Speak up, you daft bitch, I can’t hear you.”

  He leaned towards her in an attempt to make sense of her words, whereupon she suddenly leaped forward, butting him in the face with the top of her head.

  She heard his nose crunch, and then the grip on her shoulders weakened and he was staggering backwards. She looked up, to see blood pouring down his face, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Trying not to be hampered by the heavy overcoat and balaclava, she danced forward like a boxer and followed up her initial attack. She had nothing like Hellboy’s punching power, but she was fit and quick. She punched the man once, twice, three times in the face before he could even think about reacting.

  His legs buckled under him, and he hit the wooden floor with a thump that she hoped hadn’t been heard downstairs. As he was gurgling blood, his hands groping feebly at the floor in an attempt to push himself upright, she whipped her automatic out from under her coat and pointed it at his face.

  “Don’t make a noise and don’t try to get up,” she said. “That way we’ll both be happy.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was conscious enough to register what she had said. Certainly he kept trying to lever himself up, and managed to get into a semi-sitting position before she stepped forward and kicked his arms out from under him again.

  “I said stay down,” she muttered. “Do you understand?”

  His body became still and his eyes began to blink rapidly. He focused on her with difficulty and then gave a slight nod.

  “Good,” said Liz, and waved her gun in his face, like a mother showing a baby a rattle. “Now, don’t forget, I’m the one with the weapon here.”

  Quickly she pulled off the balaclava, her hair crackling with static as it rose up, then tumbled down around her shoulders again. Next she shrugged off the overcoat, which she used to wind rapidly around the man’s feet. Grabbing the thick wad of material fully in her left hand and partially in her right, while still pointing the gun at the man’s prone body, she lifted his feet and dragged him over to the door of the women’s dormitory.

  He was heavy, and if the floor had been carpeted instead of laid with old wooden planks worn smooth as glass by decades of passing feet, she doubted she would have been able to move him at all. Once she got going, however, his semiconscious body slid along easily, his arms even rising involuntarily above his head to trail behind him. She backed to the door, opened it awkwardly with the hand that was holding the gun, and dragged him inside.

  The sound of two dozen women breathing in sleep was like the soughing of the tide. Not a single one woke, or even stirred, when Liz entered the room, dragging the man behind her.

  She knew that to maintain her advantage she had to move swiftly and decisively. There was nothing to be gained in fumbling about in the dark—and so, taking a calculated risk, she reached out and switched on the room’s main light.

  The bulb dangling from the center of the ceiling was not particularly bright, but it was bare, and the light seemed momentarily harsh in contrast to the darkness that had preceded it. The semi-conscious man groaned and screwed up his eyes, even half raised an arm to shield them. The blood on his face looked startlingly red in the sudden light.

  In comparison to the man, the sleeping women barely reacted at all. A few grunted or half moaned; a couple turned over. The most significant response came from a youngish woman with masses of tangled hair, who screwed up her face and dragged a sheet over her head.

  With a silent apology Liz crossed to the nearest bed and peeled the top blanket away from its sleeping inhabitant. The blanket was made of thin, coarse material that looked as though it would rip easily. Keeping a wary eye on the man still lying on his back, dripping blood onto the floor, Liz tucked her gun back into its holster and quickly tore the blanket into strips.

  When she was done, she twisted the strips into tight corkscrews to strengthen them, then bound the man hand and foot. Once he was incapacitated, she wiped the blood carefully away from around his nostrils and mouth, checked to make sure he could breathe okay through his broken nose, and then gagged him. She dragged his body to the far end of the dormitory and rolled it under the furthest bed from the door, out of sight. The man was all but fully conscious now and staring at her with undisguised hatred.

  Liz reached into a pouch on her belt and withdrew a small brown bottle. Extending her arm, holding the bottle directly under the man’s nose, she pulled out the rubber stopper. He continued to glare at her for a few seconds, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids closed.

  “That’s right,” Liz said, “you have a nice little sleep.” She patted his face and left the room, switching the light off behind her. She noticed there were spots of blood on the wooden floor of the corridor. Using one of the remaining strips of blanket material, she wiped them up.

  Gun out, making no attempt at pretense whatsoever now, she checked out the games room and the men’s dormitory. The games room was empty, and the dormitory contained only its sleeping inhabitants. That done, she moved to the head of the stairs and listened, but all remained quiet below.

  She sat down on the upper landing, her back against the wall. All she could do now was wait, and right here was pretty much the best place to do it. From
this position, she would hear if anyone entered the building downstairs, be it via the main door or through the kitchen at the back. She would also hear if anyone started to ascend the staircase, and so would have plenty of time to find a hiding place.

  She felt happier now, more in control of the situation. Now no one could sneak into the building without her knowing it, or take her by surprise. She briefly considered calling Hellboy again, then discarded the idea. It was best to stay quiet, she thought, and to keep her hands free of everything but her gun, in case something unexpected happened.

  She didn’t know how long she had been waiting before she heard sounds of activity downstairs. She guessed it was well over an hour, maybe even close to two. Although she had been too tense to feel tired, Liz had sensed her mind beginning to drift a couple of times during the waiting period. Whenever that happened, or whenever her limbs or back began to stiffen up, she got to her feet and walked up and down a little bit, in the hope that if the Hipkisses heard her downstairs they would assume it was the guy whose nose she had broken. She wished she had something to eat. She’d had nothing since her half-finished meal in the Three Cups at lunchtime. Her stomach was rumbling so loudly she felt sure it could be heard throughout the building.

  Eventually, just as she was beginning to wonder what she would do if the members of the Eye didn’t show up, the quiet was broken by three stealthy taps on the main door downstairs. Instantly Liz was on her feet and all but leaning over the banister to listen. She heard an internal door open, footsteps on the wooden floor in the lower corridor, and then the sound of bolts being slid back. Liz felt the faintest kiss of cool air on her skin as the main door was pulled open and a breeze passed through the building. There was an exchange of low voices, the words too muffled for her to make out. Then more footsteps as the new arrivals, two or three of them maybe, entered the building.

  The main door was closed with a slight thump. Still Liz tried to make out what the men—she was sure they were men—were saying. However, she could discern nothing of the conversation, apart from the fact that one of the speakers was Alex Hipkiss, and that another had a deep, rumbling voice, and seemed to be speaking with a foreign accent.

  After a brief conversation the men started walking along the corridor. However, because of the slight distortion of sound as it echoed up the stairwell, Liz didn’t realize they were ascending the stairs until she heard one of the lower steps creak.

  Immediately she crossed silently to the men’s dormitory, having decided that this would be the most likely room that the abductors would enter. She slipped inside, paused for no more than a second to allow her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, and then moved along the central aisle between the beds to the far end. When she reached the final bed on her right, in which a bewhiskered old man was lying on his back and snoring gently, she dropped onto her stomach and rolled underneath.

  Sure enough, a few seconds later the door opened and a spill of light entered the room. Liz lay motionless, gun at the ready, and peered through the low tunnel created by the even row of beds. Three pairs of feet followed the light into the room, casting thin black shadows before them. There was a pause, then a low guttural voice in an accent that Liz recognized broadly as African, said urgently, “Don’t switch on the light.”

  “It’s quite safe,” replied Alex Hipkiss, sounding so cool and self-assured that he seemed like a different man to the amiable hippie she had met earlier. “They won’t wake up.”

  “And even if they did . . .” said the third man, whose voice was richer and more cultured than his companion’s, yet with a twang of that same African accent. He then said something in a language which Liz didn’t understand, but which made the two Africans laugh.

  “Very amusing, I’m sure,” Hipkiss said, sounding peeved at being excluded from the conversation, “but you can put that away. I’m not cleaning up your mess.”

  One of the men sighed. Then the African with the more cultured voice said, “Despite what you say, Mr. Hipkiss, let’s do as Solomzi suggests and keep the light off. There’s no point taking unnecessary risks, and we can see well enough with the light from the corridor.”

  The door was opened wider, presumably to spread a little more illumination, and the men moved further into the room.

  “So who do we take, Mr. Hipkiss?” the third man asked.

  Liz saw Hipkiss’s feet swivel in one direction, then another, and assumed he was pointing out potential victims.

  “This one’s strong enough . . . that one too . . . and him . . .

  and . . . him . . .”

  “All men?” the third man said, his voice gently mocking.

  “What’s the difference?” said Hipkiss coldly.

  The guttural man laughed and muttered something, which made him laugh all the more.

  “I think your friend has got his priorities wrong,” Hipkiss said in the same cold voice. “This isn’t about individual gratification.”

  “Males may endure longer, but the female reaction is more intense,” said the third man. “The muti is therefore purer.”

  “You’ll have to forgive my skepticism,” said Hipkiss dryly, “but by all means, take a couple of the women if you want to. It amounts to the same thing in the end.”

  One of the men walked over to a bed halfway down Liz’s row and stood beside it. Although Liz could only see him from his knees down, she got the impression he was well dressed, in suit trousers and polished black leather shoes. He stood there a while, and Liz wondered what he was doing. Finally, in his guttural voice, he said, “This one is ready. Help me with him.”

  “I hope you haven’t given him too much of that stuff,” Hipkiss said. “We do need him awake for the final ceremony.”

  “I know what I am doing,” said the guttural-voiced man indignantly.

  Although she could only see their feet, and hear the sounds that they were making, Liz knew that Hipkiss and the two Africans were lifting the drugged man from the bed. From what they had said, she gathered that he had been given some kind of supplementary drug, one that would presumably ensure he remained unconscious until they had transported him to wherever the “final ceremony” was due to take place.

  The drugged man was carried from the room and down the stairs. Liz assumed that they would load him into whatever mode of transport they had brought with them and then return for the next victim. Again, she thought about calling Hellboy, but decided that the risk was too great. Hopefully he and Abe were currently observing what was going on, keeping a low profile and biding their time. Everything now depended on their not being discovered, on being able to tail the Eye members without making them suspicious. From the way the men had been talking, the “final ceremony” would be taking place soon. If she, Hellboy, and Abe were not there to stop it, there was every likelihood that the ensuing maelstrom would do untold damage before they could even begin to regroup.

  Something else to think about was how they were going to tail the Eye members through the all-but-deserted streets without being spotted, but she guessed they would have to deal with that when the time came. That question, of course, led to another: how had the Eye members managed to get here in the first place without attracting the attention of the police and military patrols dotted about the city?

  Before she had time to ponder on the puzzle, the men were back and prepping another of the sleeping residents for the journey ahead. This time, as they exited, they pulled the dormitory door closed behind them, consigning the room once again to darkness. Liz took this as a sign that they had finished, and that they would next move across to the women’s dormitory to repeat the process. Hoping she wasn’t wrong, she slid from under the bed and ran silently up the aisle to the door. She pressed her ear against it, listening for sounds of the men coming back. After a couple of minutes she heard the creak of their feet on the stairs. As a precaution she ran across to the nearest bed and slid beneath it. Holding her breath, listening hard, she heard the low rumble of the men’s v
oices, and then the click of a door opening on the opposite side of the corridor.

  She hadn’t been wrong. They were entering the women’s dormitory. She slid back out from under the bed and pressed herself against the door once again. She hoped they wouldn’t find the unconscious man under the bed at the far end of the room. If they did the game would be up. Her heart pounded as she waited, half expecting to hear an exclamation of surprise from the men. However, after a minute or two she heard them come quietly back out of the room and start to make their way down the stairs. From the slow way they were moving it was clear they were carrying another body.

  A few minutes later they were back for their fourth, and presumably final, victim. As they began to descend the stairs, Liz knew this was where the tricky part would begin. Somehow she had to keep close enough to the men without being spotted to make it outside in time to join Hellboy and Abe before they set off in pursuit of whatever vehicle the men were driving.

  From here on in, therefore, it was going to be down to precise judgment and a huge amount of luck. She waited until she was sure the men were at the bend on the stairs, and thus no longer in sight of the upper landing, and then she eased the dormitory door open and slipped out. Now she could hear the men below. They had reached the bottom of the stairs and were moving along the corridor towards the front door. Hoping that the clomp of their footsteps would mask the sound of her descent, she crept down the stairs, keeping to the inner side of each step to reduce the creak of the old wood. When she was halfway down she dropped to her haunches and peered around the handrail at the point where it curved back on itself and descended to the floor below. The two Africans, carrying the unconscious, blanket-shrouded body of a woman, were almost at the front door, Alex Hipkiss hovering behind them. Liz could see that both Africans were tall with close-cropped hair, one lean and hollow cheeked, the other bulkier and broad shouldered. The lean man’s skin was so dark that it seemed to gleam like plastic. Both were wearing suits and ties, which made them look like businessmen, or hospital consultants.