Hellboy, Vol. 2: The All-Seeing Eye by Mark Morris Page A

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 chain-link fence several hundred yards away.
    “What’s going on?” Hellboy asked as Major Beresford, the army guy who had greeted them, approached at a semi-trot.
    “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 chain-link 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 chain-link, 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 patrolling 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