Unfinished Business

Ed Gorman & Richard Dean Starr

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Rick O'Malley was the private's name, which is a pretty good name for a

PFC when you think about it. He was from nearby Wisconsin, just

nineteen and fresh off the farm, and he was headed to Korea to get his

ass shot off in what was still officially being called a "police

action" by the Pentagon. God forbid you should call it a war, even

though 35,000 Americans, including a whole lot of PFCs, had gotten

themselves killed in that snowy wasteland.

Tonight was O'Malley's last night at Camp Pennington. By o-nine hundred

tomorrow he'd be on a train to Texas. Then, after a week of special

training, he'd be flown with his company to Korea.

He glanced at his Timex. It was barely nine-thirty; not quite twelve

hours to go. More than enough time to finish getting drunk out of his

mind and maybe even get laid.

In the rain-misted darkness of the Army town known as Grand Mound,

there wasn't much else to do on a Thursday night. Some gambling was

about all, but you had to be careful. Otherwise, you might end up in

front of the Provost Marshall with your ass in a sling. Getting drunk

was a lot more fun and, generally speaking, a hell of a lot cheaper.

O'Malley grinned and held up the half-empty bottle of Dunphy's whiskey

clenched in his hand. The stuff was rough and cheap, but it sure made

him happy. He couldn't give the whiskey all the credit, though — the

rest went to the well packaged brunette wrapped inside his other arm.

"Jess like a mir'cle," he mumbled.

She glanced up and smiled. "What was that?"

He blinked, and then took a swig from the whiskey bottle. "All's I said

was, you being here's a miracle, it surely is."

"My, what a sweet thing to say. In fact, you're so sweet, I may just

have to give you a kiss!"

O'Malley could hardly believe his good fortune. Nancy Fielding, the

girl who'd broken his heart during his Junior year in high school, had

come to Grand Mound to show him a proper send-off

The last he'd heard, she'd been a nursing-school student in Chicago and

was engaged to some doctor. He'd been damn surprised to find her

standing along the bar at Charley's, the most popular bar in Grand

Mound.

If he hadn't already been drunk, he might have been dubious about her

timing or asked a few questions. How had she known where to find him?

And what had prompted her sudden appearance? He also might have noticed

that she was more buxom than he remembered, or that the tailored red

suit she wore accentuated her every curve in ways he'd never seen

before.

All he could see was the Nancy he remembered, her beautiful, smoldering

eyes promising to resurrect memories he'd once tried to forget.

What had he been thinking? Forget about Nancy? That was just crazy.

The jukebox in Charley's had been playing Frank Sinatra and Doris Day,

songs about loneliness and heartbreak. Puck lonely, he'd thought as he

took her in his arms. There was no way PFC Rick O'Malley was going to

be lonely tonight.

Now, standing on the sidewalk across the street from Charley's, he knew

this couldn't be the girl who'd broken his heart. This was Nancy.

She'd never hurt him. Not again. Never.

He pulled her close. "Guess I'd like that kiss now," he said, his voice

hoarse with desire.

So she did, and the overwhelming scent of her perfume threatened to

drive him crazy with love and lust and loss.

For just a moment he thought of the Nancy Fielding he remembered — or

thought he did, anyway. The girl who was in nursing school. Who was

engaged. In Chicago.

How could that be?

Then the scent of her perfume enveloped him completely and he felt his

doubts slip away. What a fool he was. This really was Nancy. The one

and only.

She took him by the hand and led him away from the lights and the bars

and the safety of the other GIs. From inside Charley's, he heard Patti

Page playing the "Tennessee Waltz."

He could have cared less; he was with his one and only.

[IMAGE]

The funny thing was, for a young guy who'd once wanted to make the

military his life, O'Malley didn't give a damn about being AWOL. At

this point, he couldn't even remember how many days it had been since

he'd returned to base. Six? Seven?

He really didn't care because they were living on a different world,

one untouched by the crude concerns of terra firma. Her apartment

encompassed the entire universe. She had stocked up with steaks and red

snapper and lobster. There was wine and whiskey and, my God, champagne.

She had a 19" console TV and she loved all the same shows he did —

Jackie Gleason and Milton Berle and M-Squad with Lee Marvin and the

Hopalong Cassidy movies he'd never outgrown.

But most of all there was the dark and perfume-scented bedroom where he

was reborn each time they made love. Only once did he mention how hurt

— hell, devastated — he'd been when she deserted him that time.

But when she pressed herself to him and stroked his cheek with a

tenderness he'd never known ... it was not difficult to forgive or

forget...

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Nine days after he was last seen on base, two boys playing in a shallow

timbered area behind the high-school stadium found the body of Private

Rick O'Malley. By now his flesh had been pecked and ripped apart by

various animals, and turned into mottled patterns of decay by the

elements. What was even more disturbing than death to the boys, was the

vestige of a smile on the corpse's face. Dead guys never looked happy

on Dragnet. What did this guy have to smile about?

The man wore a uniform, one soiled with pigeon droppings, dirt, and

grass stains. He was from the nearby base.

The boys ran down to a Shell station and breathlessly told the gas

jockey there what they'd found. He said: "You kids bullshittin' me, I'm

gonna kick your ass, you got that?" These two eleven year olds had a

deserved reputation in the neighborhood for, shall we say, enhancing

things a mite. But they raised their hands in the Boy Scout way and

pledged they were telling the truth.

The gas jockey dragged out the phone book, looked up the number he

wanted, and then dialed the base.

A Jeep-load of four MPs were dispatched within eight minutes of the

call being logged in at the base switchboard.

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Four days after the discovery of Private O'Malley's body, a special

convoy came through the front gates of Camp Pennington without stopping

at the guard shack, and Colonel Robert Blaine knew immediately that

their guests had arrived.

"That's them, isn't it?" said Lieutenant Steve Wentworth.

Blaine nodded. "Yes."

He watched the largest vehicle in the convoy, a massive Army transport.

No one could have guessed who was inside. Blaine wouldn't have believed

it himself if he hadn't met him. Sometimes he still found it hard to

believe that he had. Was it really nine years now? Too often, it seemed

like a dream — although there were some who would have called it a

nightmare.

"No disrespect, sir," Wentworth said, "but this is a joke, right?"

Blaine stared at the younger man. "You've been my Chief of Staff for

two years, Lieutenant," he said. "Do I strike you as the type to make

jokes? Especially classified ones?"

Wentworth shook his head, chastened. "No, sir."

The two men were standing on the second-floor balcony of the camp's

wood-frame administration office, less than a quarter mile from the

front gate. As the convoy drew closer, Blaine could make out indistinct

faces inside the staff cars. He wondered if one of them was Professor

Bruttenholm. He'd always liked the guy, even if he was a bit odd, and

the feeling had been mutual. It would be good to see him again.

Wentworth said, "Sir, about this individual ..."

"Yes? Spit it out, Lieutenant."

"Well ..." Wentworth looked uncomfortable. "Is he dangerous? Is there

anything I should know, security-wise? I haven't had the time to — "

"Relax, Lieutenant," Blaine said. "You've been briefed. Just pay

attention and do yourself a favor; don't speak to him unless he speaks

to you first."

"Yes, sir."

The convoy parked in a semicircle in front of the building. The Army

transport shifted into reverse and lurched back toward the front porch

with a shriek of tortured gears. For a moment, Blaine thought the truck

might crash into the balcony. Then it stopped with just a few inches to

spare. From inside the truck, Blaine heard something heavy fall and a

voice say, "Crap!"

Blaine suppressed a smile. Apparently, some things hadn't changed.

"Let's welcome our guests, Lieutenant," he said. "And just try to

relax."

"Easier said than done, sir," Wentworth said. "You've met him before. I

haven't."

[IMAGE]

At first, red was the only thing Wentworth could see. There were other

colors and textures and shadows, of course, but none of them could

compete with the massive crimson presence that filled the back of the

Army transport. Then it moved into the light and Wentworth's mouth

dropped open.

"Holy shit!" he blurted. "He's real!" Immediately, he wished that he

hadn't spoken. Blaine glared at him with an expression that said, Shut

your trap right now, or there'll be hell to pay.

Apparently, hell wasn't too far off the mark.

"Yeah, 'he' is real," Hellboy said. His baritone voice was tinged with

irritation. He stepped out of the truck, his cloven hooves clanking

loudly on the wood porch. "And 'he' can hear, too. Imagine that."

Wentworth swallowed thickly. "I-l'm sorry," he said lamely. "I mean,

it's just — "

"Forget it," Hellboy said, waving his massive right arm. "I get that

kind of thing a lot." He squinted down at Wentworth. "What are you

staring at?"

"Nothing," Wentworth said, averting his eyes from Hellboy's right hand.

At least, he thought it was a hand. It looked more like a chunk of rock

with four jointed pieces that only vaguely resembled fingers.

"It's good to see you again, Hellboy," said Colonel Blaine warmly.

Hellboy reached out with his left hand and fingered the silver eagles

on Blaine's shoulders. "You're moving up in the world."

Blaine grinned. "Working with you was considered hazard duty, so they

promoted me. You've grown up quite a bit, Hellboy. Last I remember, you

were three feet tall and had a face only a mother could love."

Hellboy grimaced. "I always liked you, Blaine. You were funny. You're

not funny anymore, but at least you've still got your eye for the

weird. I told the Bureau that if anyone knew a live one when they saw

it, you'd be it. So here I am."

Blaine glanced around. "Is the professor with you?"

"Nah," Hellboy said. "I'm handling this one alone. If you've got what I

think you've got, it'll be a simple cleanup job."

"Let's get to it, then," said Blaine. "Shall we?"

He stepped aside and gestured for Hellboy to precede him. Hellboy sized

up the available space around the door, his red tail swishing through

the slit in the back of his trench coat. Then he sighed and ducked

inside. The sanded down stumps of his horns narrowly missed the top of

the frame.

They moved into the outer office and Hellboy glanced at the stairs

leading up to Blaine's office. "You sure you want me on those?"

Blaine shrugged. "Down here's fine."

He reached behind the empty receptionist's desk and rolled a metal

typing stool into the center of the room.

"There you are," he said. "That should do the trick."

"Thanks," Hellboy said, sitting down. "So what do you have for me?"

Blaine looked at Wentworth. "I'll let Wentworth brief you. He's been

the investigator on this case."

Wentworth nodded, tried to control his nerves. He stood up, the way he

had in Catholic school, to give his report.

"Over the past four months, three of our soldiers have gone AWOL. One

was gone nine days, one six days, one four days. When we found them,

they had each been dead for approximately twenty-four hours. I was on

the scene with the police and the ambulance and the medical examiner. I

was liaison between the camp and the police. I mention this because I

was glad I had witnesses to what I saw.

"Each man — corpse — died smiling. I asked the doc who did the

autopsies if maybe they weren't smiling, that maybe there was a

reaction at the point of death that simulated a smile. He said no, that

there wasn't such a reaction. The men were smiling.

"The autopsies listed massive heart attacks as the cause of death. Each

of them were young men. The oldest was twenty-three. They were all in

excellent condition. Hearts, lungs, brains showed no pre-existing

conditions."

"That's unusual," Hellboy said, "but not unheard of."

"It was the autopsies that got our attention," Blaine said. "We knew we

were looking at something paranormal. We just haven't been able to

determine exactly what that something is."

"Such as?"

"Well, their faces, for one thing." Wentworth said. "The smiles."

"And their eyes," Wentworth said. "That was something nobody really

noticed until we all saw the bodies laid out in the morgue."

Hellboy said, "The eyes were full of fire? Not literally, of course.

But there was an image of fire on the retinal surface? And the docs

said they'd never seen anything like it?"

"Yes," Wentworth said, looking young and astonished. Hellboy was

proving to be everything Blaine had told him. "How did you know?"

Hellboy sighed. "We're dealing with a lady of sorts here. A very

special lady. I've had a few run-ins with her before. She's unfinished

business from Bulgaria. But I didn't expect her to end up in Iowa."

"You said 'she,'" Wentworth said. "What do you mean?"

"Succubus," Hellboy said.

"Excuse me?" said Wentworth, unsure he'd heard correctly.

"She's a succ-u-bus," Hellboy repeated slowly. "A demon of seduction.

Supposedly, she and her male counterpart, the incubus, are fallen

angels and can change gender at will. Personally, I could care less if

she's a demon, a fallen angel, or a lawyer. As far as I'm concerned,

there's not much difference. They're all just as easy to hit."

"So how do we stop her?" Blaine said.

Hellboy looked at Wentworth and said, "I've got two bags in the truck.

Would you go get them for me, Lieutenant? I just don't want anything

damaged."

Wentworth knew he was being sent on an unnecessary errand. Clearly,

Hellboy wanted to talk to Blaine alone. But he also knew that he

couldn't say no.

He said, "Of course."

And after saluting Blaine, he was gone.

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When he was sure that Wentworth was down the hall, Hellboy leaned

forward and said, "Let's talk about the type of men we need."

"Type?"

Hellboy sat back and said, "Men who've experienced a bad relationship

with a woman. A divorce or a very painful breakup. This particular

demon can work a number of ways, but her strength is preying on men who

are psychologically at a very vulnerable point in their lives. From

five minutes on the phone with you, I had a pretty good idea of what we

were dealing with here. And Wentworth's report confirmed it."

"How do we trap her?"

"Bait. We need three soldiers to spend a few nights in the bars along

the strip, where the soldiers go. Everybody's got an old love somewhere

in their past. She instinctively takes the form of that old love. We

need men who have iron will and can stand up to her."

Hellboy shook his massive head. "That's why we need the toughest men we

can find. The second she starts to change form, our soldier signals the

MP and moves in. The MP holds her till I can get there. I'll be

cruising the block where all the bars are. I'll be a few minutes away

at most. Then I take it from there."

Blaine had one more concern. "I'm not sure I know which soldiers to

recommend."

"We talk to the chaplain and the sergeants who run the barracks.

They'll know who we should use."

"You want me to round up the chaplain and the sergeants right away?"

"May as well," Hellboy said. "No offense, Colonel, but it doesn't look

like there's much else to do in this little burg of yours."

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Hellboy and Colonel Blaine spent the next twelve hours talking to the

staff members who could help them choose three soldiers for a special

assignment. They didn't share any information about the assignment,

except to describe in detail the kind of men they needed for this

particular job.

Twice during the long, butt-numbing afternoon sitting behind his desk,

the Colonel watched through the partially open door as Wentworth

appeared in the outer office and spoke with the corporal who was

answering phones and typing.

Nearing five o'clock, they concluded their interview with a private

named "Touch" McKenzie. "Touch" had been a damned good high-school

running back, a three-summer lifeguard, and an auxiliary policeman

before dropping out of college his sophomore year because his father

had died and no more money was available. Tough, sensible, reliable.

The same kind of profile as the first selection, a hard, handsome

Italian kid named Tommy Puzo.

"One more to go," Hellboy said as McKenzie closed the door behind him

on his way out.

"I think we've already got our third man. And he's been right in front

of us. Steve Wentworth is trustworthy and competent and as an

investigator he's always kept a cool head."

"I was wondering about him myself," Hellboy said. "All right, that's

three, then. One of them will trap her and I'll move in to destroy

her."

Blaine laughed. "You're handy to have around."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks."

The Colonel placed a call and twenty minutes later, Wentworth knocked

on the door.

"Come in, Lieutenant," Blaine said. "We were just talking about you."

"Favorably, I hope," Wentworth said.

Blaine said, "Of course favorably. Now sit down here and let's the

three of us have a talk. We think you can help us with this succubus

thing."

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Promptly at nine a.m. the following morning, Wentworth, Puzo, and

McKenzie met in a private consultation room with Hellboy and Colonel

Blaine. Hellboy spent an hour telling them in detail what they were to

do and to watch for tonight as they began to work their way through the

bars that servicemen frequented.

Hellboy and Blaine alike noticed that Wentworth looked tired, maybe

even a bit sick. Blaine suspected that Wentworth had maybe picked up

the stomach bug that had been felling soldiers — and keeping them close

to toilets — for the past couple of weeks. But, Blaine assumed, like

the good soldier he was, Wentworth didn't complain. He showed up on

time and participated by asking Hellboy several questions.

In truth, Wentworth hadn't slept well last night. Following the meeting

with Hellboy and Blaine yesterday afternoon, he went to his apartment,

opened a fifth of Dewar's scotch, and proceeded to get, in the current

parlance, plastered.

He hadn't been honest with Hellboy or Blaine in his interview. They'd

asked if had ever had a love affair that he hadn't gotten over, that he

still brooded about. He'd said no.

But that was hardly the truth. He'd wanted this assignment. He was

intrigued, fascinated by it. And so he hadn't told them anything about

Dierdre, the campus beauty he'd gone out with for five months until his

jealousy and possessiveness had caused her to break it off. He spent

the following three months following her, calling her, sending her

flowers on the one hand, and bitter hate notes on the other. He had no

doubt that he was insane during this time.

Finally, she agreed to go out with him one night if he promised he

would keep things light. Everything had gone well on that night of an

ice storm, until they were approaching her dorm. He sped up so she

couldn't get out of the car. He drove straight to the highway. The

radio had warned that all roadways were ice-packed and dangerous. He

told her that he'd never let her go. He started screaming at her, so

absorbed in his madness that he didn't see the long sheet of ice just

ahead, nor the semi bearing down on them in the other lane. Not until

it was too late, him sliding across the ice into the other lane, the

semi smashing into them, virtually severing the car in half.

He lived; she died.

Dierdre; oh, Dierdre ...

If Hellboy was sure that Steve would see her again — even in the form

of a demon — Steve didn't care ... Just to hold her, tell her how sorry

he was for what had happened ...

"You sure you're all right?" asked Colonel Blaine. "We can get somebody

else if you'd rather get some rest tonight."

"Oh, I'm fine, sir. Just fine. Really."

And he was. Dierdre awaited him ...

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Promptly at seven o'clock, the teams hit the long, neon-red street

where the main taverns were located. The teams consisted of the soldier

who was there to be bait, to draw out the demon, and another soldier to

keep an eye on the bait, to report back immediately if it looked like

contact could be made.

Hellboy and Colonel Blaine waited nervously for word that night, but

none came. No contact of any kind was made.

The three soldiers nursed beers, walked around, kept themselves as

accessible as possible. Each of them were approached by various

prostitutes, but these girls were familiar types. The only thing spooky

about them was all the makeup and cheap perfume they wore.

Nobody was more disappointed that night than Wentworth. He lay in bed

smoking one cigarette after another, listening to his long-play album

of the Four Freshmen. Nobody could croon like those lads, using jazzy

riffs to extend and clarify the sentimental songs of lost loves and

what-might-have-beens.

He was so exhausted by the time he got to sleep, he rolled over and

slammed off the alarm when six o'clock came. He didn't come to until

nearly nine-thirty. At least he felt rested. He showered, dressed,

headed to his office. Fortunately, Colonel Blaine was involved in a

meeting at the mayor's office. Once a month, every third Tuesday, the

mayor and the Colonel met to work through any problems the Army was

causing the town or the town causing the Army. He didn't get to the

office until eleven.

Steve Wentworth didn't get much work done. All he could focus on was

what the meeting would be like when he finally met Dierdre. He would

get the chance to tell her how sorry he was for what he'd done. And

then she would be his again.

[IMAGE]

At Finnegan's Tap Lieutenant Steve Wentworth was well on his way to

winning twenty dollars at bumper pool. He wasn't worth a damn at real

pool, but he was the Babe Ruth of bumper pool. Even Sergeant Mallory,

who stood at the far end of the bar watching over him, was impressed.

He'd give a thumbs up every time Wentworth made a good shot.

He was lucky his skill hadn't left him. This was the third bar they'd

been in tonight and there was no sign of any woman coming on to him. A

few of them gave him the kind of looks that all attractive men or women

get, but they didn't show any teal interest.

He'd play a few more games here and, if nothing happened, he'd move on

to the fourth and final bar.

Dierdre, he thought. Dierdre.

Back to the game.

He lined up his shot. Six ball in the corner pocket. Not much of a

challenge.

He shot. Then something strange happened.

He scratched.

Badly.

So badly, in fact, that the tip of his cue tore open the bright green

billiard fabric the same as if he'd cut it with a switchblade.

The others around him were too drunk to notice how Wentworth's

expression had changed just before he made the shot. He'd just been

about to apply cue to ball when his eyes rose and caught sight of her

standing at the end of the table.

Distantly, he saw the cue seem to shoot itself.

And miss the ball entirely.

Then rip right through the billiard fabric.

Strange, indeed.

But not nearly as strange as seeing a ghost.

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Hellboy was a creature of the night. Not because of his origins, but

because he loved late-night television. He'd been watching Broadway

Open House for about a year now and thought that Morey Amsterdam was

one hell of a funny guy.

It was after one a.m. when Colonel Blaine stuck his head into Hellboy's

borrowed office. Hellboy was on the telephone and gestured for the

Colonel to come in and sit down.

"Right," Hellboy said into the phone. "No problem. Okay, we'll try

again tomorrow. Ciao."

"Any luck?" Blaine asked, lowering himself into a chair.

"None," Hellboy said, dropping the phone back onto the cradle. He

leaned back in the office chair and propped his hooves up on the edge

of the desk. "That was Wilkes checking in. He just left Harrington's

Pub babysitting Lieutenant Callahan. No sign of any demons. Although he

did say a few of the women looked demonic until you'd had a couple of

beers."

"What about Wentworth? You heard anything from Sergeant Mallory yet?"

"No. But I'm sure he'll be calling in. Be time to wrap up the night

pretty soon. Maybe she's not going to show tonight, either."

[IMAGE]

But she wasn't a ghost. Steve Wentworth let his cue fall to the floor.

He started walking to mid-point at the bar. He felt as if he was in one

of those corny old romance movies where even in a crowded room the only

two people you notice are the two lovers who are coming urgently

together.

He bumped people but he didn't notice. He stepped on toes but he didn't

notice. He even nudged a guy into spilling some beer on himself, but he

didn't notice that, either.

All there was was Dierdre.

And then she was there. Real. Complete. Ethereal in her elegant beauty.

"Hello, Steve. I knew I'd see you again someday."

"I had the same feeling."

"I have a place we could go. But that sergeant keeps moving closer to

us. I don't think he wants us to be together."

"Just wait here a minute. Then we'll go."

He felt light-headed, unreal. All that mattered was Dierdre.

He made quick work of Mallory. Walked right up to him and said, "She's

an old friend of mine. Not the one we were waiting for. You can go sit

down now."

The blunt-faced Mallory checked out the young officer's face. "You

don't look right. Lieutenant. Maybe you better let me take over from

here."

"I've told you, Sergeant. There's no problem. So just go drink a beer

and relax."

He'd spoken so sharply that the soldiers around him were tuning in now.

They sensed a fight about to happen. Who could resist watching a bar

fight? Not even Uncle Miltie, presently on the TV up in the far corner

of the bar, could be as entertaining as a good old-fashioned bar brawl.

But there was no brawl. Steve Wentworth smashed Mallory squarely in the

mouth with such force that he knocked the sergeant back into the crowd.

Thick blood began splashing from the man's mouth. His eyes rolled back

into his head as the soldiers behind him caught him.

Steve wasted no time. The soldiers crowded along the bar gave him

plenty of space. He moved quickly back to Dierdre, grabbed her wrist,

and dragged her toward the back door.

Sergeant Mallory was unconscious for the next five minutes, and by then

Steve and Dierdre were long gone.

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For the next thirty-six hours, Hellboy and Colonel Blaine stayed close

to the telephones. Not wanting the local police involved — think of how

the public would react if the story of a succubus ever got out, a storm

of panic, or a storm of hooting, howling laughter — Blaine discreetly

ordered his Military Police to prowl the streets looking for Steve

Wentworth. All of them knew what Wentworth looked like, so identifying

him wouldn't be any trouble.

Sergeant Mallory was interviewed three times. Blaine could see that the

enlisted man — a man with a commendable record — was embarrassed to

have let down his commander this way. He just kept repeating that he

certainly didn't expect Wentworth to have wielded that amount of power

with a single punch. He seemed to be in shock.

[IMAGE]

Steve Wentworth could not believe how much his life had changed. The

night he and Dierdre had left Finnegan's Bar together, he had broken

down completely. He'd talked and cried for hours, begging for her

forgiveness and pledging his undying love. After that, they'd held each

other into the morning; the future was theirs once more.

By the next day he had practically moved in with Dierdre.

She had a small apartment a mile from the post, which is where they

spent their first night together. When he entered it, Wentworth felt as

if he'd dropped into a fantastic dream. Her beauty, her elegance, her

gentle love for him — he was in love with her even more than he'd been

back in college. When she took him so gently to bed, he felt not only

sated but renewed, as if being with her gave him a strength and

tranquility and purpose that life had deprived him of before.

Thank God she hadn't died in the car accident, after all. She lay in

his arms their first night together and she told him what had happened

to her.

"The doctor who treated me had a drinking problem," she explained. "He

confused me with a patient who didn't make it."

"But why?" he asked. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was a chance to get away, from my smothering parents, from my

relationship with you. Remember, we were fighting a lot at the time.

And I was so confused! It was really a chance to start my own life,

don't you see?"

"But 1 still can't understand — "

"No," she said, "you can't. You can't know how much I've missed you or

how long I've searched. But now we're together again, and I'll always

be here. Always!"

His life seemed so simple now, and good. He was with Dierdre again,

with her in all respects, and never more so than when they were making

love in the shadows of her one-room apartment, away from the rest of

humanity.

It was on their third night together that he sensed she was troubled. A

terrible fear came over him. Was she going to leave him, after all?

But then he was lost in the warmth and comfort of their love. Only

later did the fear of her leaving come back. "Is everything all right,

sweetheart?"

"It's nothing, just something I have to work out on my own."

"Your own? I thought we were together again."

She smiled. Touched his cheek. He literally felt her sadness and

melancholy. It was on the air itself. "There's a ... a creature, a

monster. He's after me."

"A creature?" he said, surprised by her choice of words. "What kind of

creature?"

"They call him Hellboy," she said. "I met him briefly in Europe a few

years ago. He became obsessed with me. At first I thought it was

flattering. But then — " She covered her face with her hands, and his

sense of her fear and heartache seemed like a spike in his heart. "But

then, he — he kidnapped me."

"Kidnapped you? Hellboy?"

"Yes. I managed to escape, but I've been hiding from him ever since.

The military is convinced he's so honorable — if they only knew."

Her gentle voice became tearful now. "He always finds me. He's here

now. He's convinced everyone that I'm this evil person, this demon. So

they help him. Someday he'll kidnap me again and I won't be able to

escape. Then he'll have me forever."

Wentworth was horrified.

I should've told her right from the start why I was in that bar, he

thought. Dammit, I was one of the people helping Hellboy find her!

He gathered her up in his arms and held her close.

I didn't know what he was really up to then, but I know now. I'm going

to make sure he never gets his hands on her again, he vowed.

Dierdre looked up at him, and her eyes were full of love and lust and

need. He blinked, and for a moment he imagined that he saw fire in

them, and that her teeth were as thin and sharp as daggers.

Then she took him down into her sweet, sad, scented beauty, and all his

thoughts were lost.

[IMAGE]

After the first night, when they were unable to find him, Hellboy and

Colonel Blaine knew that they had lost Steve Wentworth. Two more days

of searching for him had turned up nothing. Apparently, the Lieutenant

hadn't returned to camp since the scene with Sergeant Mallory. His

clothes were still in his quarters and the bed had clearly not been

slept in. By the third day there were at least two dozen pieces of mail

lying on his desk, unopened. "It looks like I'm going bar-hopping,"

Blaine said.

"I'd love to join you," said Hellboy. "I could use a beer or three. But

I'd probably attract some attention."

Blaine smiled uncertainly. "Yeah, come to think of it, you probably

would."

[IMAGE]

Blaine dressed in a gray Irish-tweed jacket, a black crewneck sweater,

chinos, and sand-colored desert boots. With the leather patches on his

elbows and the pipe in his mouth, he thought he looked like a college

professor.

He hadn't been bar-hopping since before his wedding eleven years ago.

Some of the soldiers in the bars recognized him, but most didn't. He

kept to the shadows unless he was talking to a server or bartender.

Blaine had brought plenty of twenty-dollar bills. He'd never tried to

bribe anybody before. It was kind of fun. Like being in a detective

movie. Like Mike Hammer, Blaine being a secret reader of the Mickey

Spillane novels that presently dominated all the best-seller lists.

He handed out seven twenties that night. First in Charley's, then at

The Clover Leaf Club. And always with the same line: You help me find

this Lieutenant Wentworth, you'll get four more twenties just like this

one. Then he'd hand the person his card with both his office and camp

phone numbers on it.

The Colonel hadn't been inside Finnegan's bar for more than five

minutes when the bartender directed him to an attractive blond girl who

was moving around the tables, serving drinks to the crowd of GIs.

"Sure, I know Steve," she said after they'd slipped into one of the

bar's shadowy corners and Blaine introduced himself. Then, more

suspiciously: "He's a nice guy. He goes to our basketball games

sometimes. I'm a junior at the college here. I just work here part

time. Cindy's my name, by the way, Colonel."

Blaine said smoothly, "Cindy, our daughter's in town for twenty-four

hours. We'd like to introduce them. You haven't seen him around, have

you?"

"Not today. The other night I did. He was playing bumper pool, right

there." She pointed to the table. It wasn't being used because of the

tear in the fabric surface. A handwritten "Out of Order" sign was

propped up between the bumpers.

"Did he do that?" Blaine said, nodding at the tear.

"Yes. And he hit this other soldier hard enough to knock him out with

one punch. Then he grabbed this really beautiful girl and ran out the

back way. It wasn't like Steve at all. It was as if he was another

person."

Damn, Blaine thought. Wentworth could be anywhere by now. Or dead. "Did

you happen to notice which way they went?"

Cindy looked at him, her expression suggesting she didn't consider him

the sharpest stick in the room. "Well, yes, of course I know which way

he went!"

"You do? That's terrific!" Blaine pulled a small notebook from his back

pocket and got his ballpoint pen ready. "So which way did they go?"

Cindy shook her head. "The girl he left with lives in my building." She

gave him the address. "Juniors can live off campus. It's a lot better

than living in the dorm."

"Thanks, Cindy." He tried not to sound excited. He didn't want her to

know how urgent the situation was.

He slid a twenty-dollar bill under his beer when she was momentarily

distracted and said, "Somebody left you this."

She smiled. "You don't have to bribe me, Colonel. I've got a brother in

Korea. I'm just glad to help any way I can."

She left the twenty on the table.

[IMAGE]

It was well after three a.m. by the time Hellboy joined Blaine in the

dark alleyway across the street from the modest two-story brownstone

apartment building.

"She rents the corner one," Blaine said, pointing up at the second

floor. "The one in front there."

Hellboy opened the left side of his trench coat, revealing an enormous

holster containing the largest handgun Blaine had ever seen.

"You think bullets will actually work on her — uh, it?" he said

skeptically.

"Nah," Hellboy said, pulling the gun from the holster and cracking open

the chamber. "But I brought along a special surprise." He tapped on one

of the bullets, which were made of a clear material filled with

glowing, blue liquid.

"It's the blood of an incubus," Hellboy explained. "The male version of

our demon. The succubus and incubus love human pain and suffering, but

they can't touch each other's blood. It's sorta like giving a human a

cyanide cocktail. Except instead of dying, they're forced back into

hell. Permanently." Rising to his full, imposing height, Hellboy

grinned. "Time to get this show on the road."

"We can provide cover if you need it," Blaine said.

"Cover?" Hellboy actually managed to look hurt. "Me?"

"I stand corrected," Blaine said, amused.

"How soon they forget," muttered Hellboy. Hefting the pistol

chest-high, he strode out of the alley and into the night.

[IMAGE]

In the dream, Steve Wentworth was floating. Dierdre was standing over

him, her smile beatific, her gaze loving. Before he could speak or even

smile, her face changed. The skin seemed to melt away like candle wax,

revealing a hellish creature so terrifyingly hideous that his tongue

retreated into his throat, choking him.

Unable to scream, he rolled away and found himself falling into a

bottomless pit lined with fire. To his horror, the thing that had once

been Dierdre fell with him, sinking its claws into his chest, into his

face. Its breath stank of rotting meat.

They say you wake up from a dream of falling before you hit the ground.

But that wasn't what roused Wentworth from his terrible nightmare; it

was the sound of splintering wood and the loud crash of the shattered

front door hitting the wall of the living room. He rolled over, moving

instinctively to shield Dierdre from harm.

To his surprise, she wasn't in bed.

He reached under his pillow, fumbling in the darkness for his Browning

semi-automatic pistol. He didn't need to see what had kicked in the

front door; he already knew.

Hellboy.

The creature had come for Dierdre, just as she'd feared.

"Help! Keep him away from me, Steve! Please!"

Wentworth stepped into the dark living room and saw Dierdre. She was in

her nightgown, crouched in front of the window. Backlit by the faint

light filtering in from the streetlamps, she seemed more radiant and

beautiful than he could ever remember.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll protect you."

He paused, listening intently. He wanted to go to the nearest light

switch, but couldn't risk making any more sound. Staring into the

darkness, straining his ears, he waited for some indication of

movement.

When Hellboy came through the destroyed front door, he was much faster

than Wentworth would have believed possible. But then again, he — it —

wasn't human. It was a freak of hell, come to steal away his one true

love.

"You can't have her!" he screamed and fired the Browning wildly in

Hellboy's direction. "She's mine, and I'm never going to let her go!"

As the muzzle flashed, Wentworth saw Hellboy rolling across the living

room. Then the hammer clicked on an empty chamber and the room was

plunged back into darkness.

Breathing raggedly, he turned and started for the bedroom to get more

bullets. It was impossible to tell if any of the ones he'd fired had

found their mark.

Then Hellboy was rising up in front of him. Wentworth saw him and his

heart froze.

Hellboy was aiming a gun. At Dierdre. At his beloved.

"Noooo!" Wentworth shrieked and threw himself in front of Dierdre just

as Hellboy pulled the trigger. The bullet punched through Wentworth's

shoulder, tearing a bloody path two inches wide and spinning him around

onto the floor. Then the bullet struck Dierdre and exploded in a shower

of blue fire.

The effect on her was instantaneous.

Sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own blood, Wentworth watched in

horror and despair as Dierdre's entire body flickered, a dying candle.

Just like in his dreams.

"Dierdre," he moaned.

Wentworth had lost his beloved once, had nearly killed her because of

his drinking and his selfishness. Now he was losing her once again, and

it was more than he could bear. Pushing himself up on his good arm, he

inched toward the flickering form of his beloved.

He heard Hellboy yell, "Wentworth, don't! She'll take you with her!"

He no longer cared. To live with the memory of Dierdre's face, to have

known her beauty once more, only to relive the pain of losing her all

over again, that would be a living death.

With a final sob, he reached out and touched the edge of her shimmering

nightgown.

[IMAGE]

Hellboy stood in the darkened apartment, staring down at the empty spot

where the succubus had been standing. The blue drops of blood

splattered across the walls were already disappearing, fading back into

hell. But the blood of Steve Wentworth was still dark and bright on the

polished floor.

"Dammit," Hellboy said softly. He slipped his gun back into its holster

and knelt down. Reaching out, he rolled Wentworth's lifeless body over

and stared into his wide, flame-filled eyes.

Failure was not something Hellboy was accustomed to. Not that this was

entirely a failure; he had killed the demon, after all. Still, it felt

wrong, incomplete.

Someone once said that true love never dies. As Hellboy looked into

Wentworth's eyes, he thought maybe he could see love there, even in the

flames of hell.

That wasn't much consolation. But for now, it would have to be enough.