questioned and his equipment confiscated), he was terrified of losing the story. Heart whacking in his chest, he burst through the bushes bordering the side of the dirt track and began to run.
The ground was slippery with mud, and he felt horribly exposed out in the open. He ran for perhaps thirty meters, slithering and almost falling a couple of times, before realizing that if he was going to have any chance of escaping his pursuers an alternative strategy was needed. Jumping from puddle to puddle to cover his tracks, he veered towards the dry stone wall on the other side of the road. He glanced behind him to satisfy himself that he was still screened by the bushes and trees opposite, and then he clambered awkwardly over the wall.
The drop on the other side surprised him a little. The field was at a lower level than the road, and he fell a good six feet into springy, boggy grass. Muddy water instantly oozed over his feet and ankles, waterlogging his shoes. Unable to keep his balance, Proctor fell to his knees. He grimaced, but forced himself to remain silent and motionless, pressing his back against the stone wall.
After a few minutes he heard shouts, and then the thump of approaching footsteps. He pressed himself even further back against the wall as the splat of booted feet seemed to sound directly above his head. He was certain that at any moment someone would peer over the wall and see him crouching in the mud. He heard shouted orders, and then the rapid-fire thud of soldiers running off up the road in both directions. There then followed a muted conversation — of which Proctor could catch only the occasional word — between what he assumed were a couple of officers. Eventually the conversation stopped, and he heard the sound of receding footsteps. He left it another five minutes and then he tentatively began to move.
He edged along the length of the wall in a semi-crouch towards the corner of the field. Here the wall was bisected by a wooden fence, which seemed to be holding back a surging mass of woodland. Proctor peered over his shoulder, then bolted for the cover of the trees. He was filthy, cold, and wet, and his breath was rasping in his chest, but it would be worth it if he could reach his car and get back to London with his story.
Chapter 3
“So what are these theories of yours, Mr. Varley?” Abe asked.
Varley, sitting between Liz and Abe, smiled self-consciously. “Well, it’s Dr . Varley actually. But please, call me Richard.”
From the front of the Daimler, Hellboy groaned. “Don’t you ever get tired of the info-dumping, Abe?”
Liz smiled an apology at Richard. “HB, that’s rude,” she said.
“Sorry,” said Hellboy, and glanced at Richard in the rear-view mirror. “No offence, Dr... er, Richard, I mean.”
“None taken,” Richard said, and laughed. Liz liked the fact that there was no hint of nervousness or uncertainty in his reaction. Too often people meeting Hellboy for the first time were too eager to please, as if afraid he would tear them limb from limb if they incurred his wrath.
“You mentioned muti murders,” Abe said, “but as I understand it, muti is simply the Zulu term for medicine — or am I wrong?”
Richard raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”
“He reads a lot,” Liz said dryly.
Smiling, Richard said, “You’re right, of course, Abe. Muti is a catch-all term for African herbal medicine. However, there is a darker, more clandestine aspect to it. Certain sangomas, or witch doctors, have been known to mix body parts with other ingredients to increase the effect of the medicine’s power. Brain matter mixed in with the muti, for example, is said to bestow knowledge or to increase intelligence, whereas breasts and genitals are thought to endow a client with greater virility.”
“And how widespread are these darker practices?” asked Liz.
Richard shrugged. “No one really knows. There are reports of muti murders right across northern and southern
The ground was slippery with mud, and he felt horribly exposed out in the open. He ran for perhaps thirty meters, slithering and almost falling a couple of times, before realizing that if he was going to have any chance of escaping his pursuers an alternative strategy was needed. Jumping from puddle to puddle to cover his tracks, he veered towards the dry stone wall on the other side of the road. He glanced behind him to satisfy himself that he was still screened by the bushes and trees opposite, and then he clambered awkwardly over the wall.
The drop on the other side surprised him a little. The field was at a lower level than the road, and he fell a good six feet into springy, boggy grass. Muddy water instantly oozed over his feet and ankles, waterlogging his shoes. Unable to keep his balance, Proctor fell to his knees. He grimaced, but forced himself to remain silent and motionless, pressing his back against the stone wall.
After a few minutes he heard shouts, and then the thump of approaching footsteps. He pressed himself even further back against the wall as the splat of booted feet seemed to sound directly above his head. He was certain that at any moment someone would peer over the wall and see him crouching in the mud. He heard shouted orders, and then the rapid-fire thud of soldiers running off up the road in both directions. There then followed a muted conversation — of which Proctor could catch only the occasional word — between what he assumed were a couple of officers. Eventually the conversation stopped, and he heard the sound of receding footsteps. He left it another five minutes and then he tentatively began to move.
He edged along the length of the wall in a semi-crouch towards the corner of the field. Here the wall was bisected by a wooden fence, which seemed to be holding back a surging mass of woodland. Proctor peered over his shoulder, then bolted for the cover of the trees. He was filthy, cold, and wet, and his breath was rasping in his chest, but it would be worth it if he could reach his car and get back to London with his story.
Chapter 3
“So what are these theories of yours, Mr. Varley?” Abe asked.
Varley, sitting between Liz and Abe, smiled self-consciously. “Well, it’s Dr . Varley actually. But please, call me Richard.”
From the front of the Daimler, Hellboy groaned. “Don’t you ever get tired of the info-dumping, Abe?”
Liz smiled an apology at Richard. “HB, that’s rude,” she said.
“Sorry,” said Hellboy, and glanced at Richard in the rear-view mirror. “No offence, Dr... er, Richard, I mean.”
“None taken,” Richard said, and laughed. Liz liked the fact that there was no hint of nervousness or uncertainty in his reaction. Too often people meeting Hellboy for the first time were too eager to please, as if afraid he would tear them limb from limb if they incurred his wrath.
“You mentioned muti murders,” Abe said, “but as I understand it, muti is simply the Zulu term for medicine — or am I wrong?”
Richard raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”
“He reads a lot,” Liz said dryly.
Smiling, Richard said, “You’re right, of course, Abe. Muti is a catch-all term for African herbal medicine. However, there is a darker, more clandestine aspect to it. Certain sangomas, or witch doctors, have been known to mix body parts with other ingredients to increase the effect of the medicine’s power. Brain matter mixed in with the muti, for example, is said to bestow knowledge or to increase intelligence, whereas breasts and genitals are thought to endow a client with greater virility.”
“And how widespread are these darker practices?” asked Liz.
Richard shrugged. “No one really knows. There are reports of muti murders right across northern and southern
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