A Deafening Silence In Heaven - Thomas E. Sniegoski Page 0,26

obviously addressing Squire.

“I thought he was fucking dead,” the squat figure bellowed as he threw his arms into the air.

Francis and another man stepped over the body in the kitchen doorway and into the living room.

“Is that him?” Linda asked. “Is that the doctor?”

“Yeah, name’s Assiel,” Francis said grimly, staring down at Remy’s body.

Marlowe came to Francis, nuzzling the man’s hand with his black snout.

“I know, pal,” he said to the dog. “I’m worried, too.”

Assiel knelt down beside Remy’s body, placing a small duffel bag on the floor next to him. He pulled back the blanket covering the angel, then reached into the bag and removed a bronze canister. He twisted the lid open. A thick, almost musty smell suddenly filled the room, and Mulvehill saw inside his mind’s eye a lush, tropical jungle, the imagery so powerful and distinct that he could have sworn he was right there experiencing its primitive splendor.

“What is that?” he asked aloud. “It smells like . . .”

“A jungle,” Linda finished, meeting his eyes.

“A garden,” the doctor corrected as he dabbed his fingers into the dark contents of the canister and began to apply the muddy substance to Remy’s angry wounds. “The soil of Eden. This will stop the infection from spreading any further.”

“Is that the problem . . . an infection?” Linda asked, kneeling down to join the mysterious dark-skinned doctor.

“It’s one of them,” he answered, his voice low and timorous. “I am going to need to examine him further to determine the extent of his condition.” He looked up at Francis. “Is there a place where I can take him?”

“You can take him upstairs to the bedroom,” Linda said quickly, pointing to the stairway beyond the living room.

Mulvehill made a move toward the doctor. “I’ll give you a hand with him,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary.”

And before Mulvehill could reach him, Assiel had gently lifted Remy from the floor and was holding him as if he were weightless.

“Okay, then,” Mulvehill said. “Looks like you’re good.” He picked up the physician’s bag and handed it to Linda as she headed toward the stairs.

“It’s this way,” she said, motioning for Assiel to follow her.

Assiel ascended the stairs behind her as Mulvehill, Squire, and Francis watched without a word. Marlowe looked at them with concerned eyes.

“Go on,” Francis said. “You can go on up, too.”

The dog trotted over to the staircase and began to climb.

“So,” Squire interrupted their thoughts. “Do you know where Remy keeps his whiskey?”

“Not sure about the good stuff,” Francis replied, “but I know he had a bottle of Seagram’s in the kitchen cabinet to the right of the sink.”

“Any port in a storm,” Squire said, walking past them and stepping over the body of the assassin in the doorway.

“I didn’t know that hobgoblins were such drunks,” Francis commented with a shake of his head.

“Hobgoblins?” Mulvehill asked, watching Squire in the kitchen. “Is that what he is?”

Squire had pulled a chair out from the small dinette set and was climbing up onto it to reach the upper cabinets.

“What’d you think, he was just ugly?” Francis asked. Then he kicked the corpse at their feet. “This piece of shit is a Bone Master.”

“Of course it is,” Mulvehill replied. “But knowing that wouldn’t have helped me kill the one that came after me any faster.”

Francis looked at him, reaching up to adjust his horn-rimmed glasses.

“You killed one of these?”

Mulvehill nodded. “Came at me in my apartment. It was close, but I managed to take it out.”

“Outstanding.”

“Thanks.” Mulvehill thought Francis might be looking at him with a new set of eyes. “So what do you think? Will there be more?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Francis said.

“Found it!” Squire squawked from the kitchen. Mulvehill looked in and saw the hobgoblin cradling the bottle of whiskey like it was the Holy Grail.

“That’s why I had our goblin friend come by,” Francis said. “Think I’m going to need to do a little more digging to find out how bad things really are.”

He reached down and grabbed one of the Bone Master’s legs. “I’ll start by questioning this one.”

“But he’s dead.” Mulvehill felt foolish stating the obvious.

“Not quite.”

“Not quite? An axe in his spine and a bullet in the back of his head?”

“I asked the bullet to stop short of killing him,” Francis explained.

“You asked the bullet?”

“What, you don’t talk to your bullets?” Francis asked. “Help me with this,” he ordered as he began to tug on the Bone Master’s leg.

Mulvehill leaned in and grabbed the other leg; then