A Deafening Silence In Heaven - Thomas E. Sniegoski Page 0,25

perhaps distracted by the coming . . . Unification.”

The Patriarch felt his consciousness slipping away as darkness filled him, choking the life—and the light inside.

“If you see the Almighty,” he heard Simeon say from far off in the distance. “I want you to tell Him that Simeon says hello, and that we’ll be seeing each other very soon.”

And with that, Patriarch Adolfi left the mortal world, passing into the darkness of death.

• • •

“Does this look all right to you?” the hideous little man asked, his grotesque features eerily illuminated by the interior light of the refrigerator.

He held a wedge of mold-covered cheese out toward Mulvehill.

“It’s cheese,” Mulvehill answered. “It always smells like shit.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” The creature took an enormous bite from the wedge and slammed the refrigerator door shut.

“Who . . . who are you?” Linda asked.

Marlowe had come into the kitchen as well, standing close by, wagging his tail as he watched Squire eat the cheese.

“I’m Squire,” he said as he chewed. “Francis called and asked if I’d keep an eye on things here, y’know”—he glanced to the body of the assassin on the floor—“just in case. And it looks like his concerns were justified.”

Mulvehill looked back to the body and felt a chill run down the length of his spine, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with fear.

“They must know that he’s still alive,” he said, almost dreamily. “Sent more to finish the job.”

“That’s probably what Francis was thinkin’, too,” Squire said, taking another bite from the moldy cheese wedge. The little man looked past them into the living room.

“Shit,” he muttered. He leaned his battle-axe against the kitchen cabinet and moved toward Remy.

“You say he’s still alive,” Squire said, studying the body.

“Yes,” Linda was quick to answer. “Francis said that he was.”

“Looks dead,” Squire said. “If not, then close to.”

“He’s still alive,” Mulvehill emphasized. “That’s good enough for right now.”

“Yeah,” Squire agreed. “Let’s hope that Francis gets back here soon, ’cause I think the clock is tickin’.”

“He said that he was going to pick up a doctor, or at least somebody who would know how to take care of somebody like . . .” Linda stopped, staring intensely at the unconscious Remy.

Unexpectedly, Squire saddled up alongside her and put a short, muscular arm around her waist.

“Chin up, girlie,” he said. “Ain’t over till the fat lady gets her sandwich.”

“What happened to her singing?” Mulvehill asked.

“She ain’t singing till she gets her sandwich,” Squire explained. “Buys us a bit more time.” He chuckled, a horrible gurgling sound that made Mulvehill think he was going to spit something onto the floor.

“All this heavy emotion has made me parched,” Squire then said, licking his lips. “Do you know where he keeps his whiskey?”

Mulvehill was about to suggest that maybe they should lay off the whiskey when there came a grunt and a scream of rage from behind them, and they all started to turn.

It all happened in an explosion of action, the assassin—whom they’d believed to be dead—was swaying in the doorway, Squire’s battle-axe gripped firmly, and ready to strike.

“Oh shit!” Squire exclaimed as Linda let out a short squeak of surprise, and he watched as she threw herself across Remy’s body to protect him.

That one’s a keeper, Mulvehill found himself thinking about Linda, at that strangest of moments, turning toward the charging assassin as he pulled the Glock from its holder again and raised it to fire.

The subsequent gunshot was like that vicious crack of thunder from a particularly angry summer storm, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the skin, and into the bones. A sound that seemed to temporarily freeze time, until the searing flash of lighting moved it along once again.

But the sound had not come from his gun.

Mulvehill found himself still paralyzed by the sound, dropping low to the ground as his eyes remained riveted to the assassin, who now pitched forward in the doorway to the living room, giving Mulvehill a view of the kitchen behind him, and of the two men standing there, one of whom still held a smoking Colt .45 that looked like it was made from gold.

“Drop the gun!” Mulvehill commanded on instinct.

The man did not drop the gun but lowered it ever so slightly.

“Mulvehill, right?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, but his aim did not waver.

“Francis,” he said, sliding the pistol into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “And what the fuck did I have you come here for?” he then shouted,