A Deafening Silence In Heaven by Thomas E. Sniegoski

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, 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