The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  “…you can’t just pretend it never happened. People died because of you. I guess we’ll never know exactly how many at your hand, but—”

  “Three,” said Daniel. “I killed three. And you already know that…or are we pretending you haven’t read the case file?”

  Conrad’s mouth tightened very slightly. “Watch yourself, Daniel.”

  Daniel nodded, not an apology but a grudging acknowledgment of his station.

  Conrad’s tone turned conversational. “You’ll enjoy your time in Outreach. We have many pencils that require sharpening, and you’re just the man for the job. We’ll cure you of your sin of pride, and you’ll be a better priest when I decide it’s time for you to return to the ODA.” He flashed Daniel a grin that said: Checkmate.

  Rome, Italy…

  Daniel picked up his Honda Shadow from long-term parking at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, hit the Autostrada, and pointed the motorcycle toward the lights of Rome, barely seeing the road, his mind replaying scenes from Nigeria.

  The obsequious parish priest, angling to parlay his local miracle into a promotion to the big city. The grandparents and parents filled with pride because “God has chosen our little Abassi to bear the wounds of Christ.” And the teenage girl with endless brown eyes, manic energy, and a handful of three-inch twisted-shank roofing nails hidden under her mattress.

  Daniel had caught her in the act. He knew she was self-mutilating, but he played dumb for a few days, interviewing the girl and her family with softball questions, lulling them into a sense of security. Every few hours, the family would contrive to leave the girl alone. “She needs to rest, this is so hard on her,” one of them would say, and all would agree with pitying nods of the head, wringing their rough country hands. They would sit in the kitchen and drink tea from chipped china, and when they returned an hour later with a cup of tea for the girl, their footfalls were loud and they paused a little too long between knock and enter.

  Willful blindness. He tried not to hate them for it.

  On the third day, during one of the girl’s “rests,” Daniel excused himself from the kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, exactly as he had done the previous days. But this time he walked straight to the girl’s room and threw the door open.

  She sat smiling on her bed, quietly singing “Jesus Loves Me,” while jabbing a nail straight through the palm of her left hand. Then twisting the nail, enlarging the hole as blood dripped into her lap.

  Conrad wasn’t wrong about what was at stake. The twisted, fundamentalist brand of Islam that Boko Haram was selling in Nigeria was beyond regressive—it was violent, misogynistic, and apocalyptic. Their name meant “Western education is sacrilege.” They’d vowed to kill all the Christians living in their territory, and they were making good on it. They’d already killed over a thousand, burned over three hundred churches. Last Christmas Day, they slaughtered forty-two Catholics. The moderate Muslims struggling to govern the country in cooperation with the Christian minority were losing ground to the Islamist radicals, and after years living under the imminent threat of civil war, no one wanted to admit that the war was in fact well underway. The politicians still used the term insurgency, but it came out sounding like wishful thinking.

  Of course there was no argument with Conrad’s goal, and yes, faking a miracle might help win the current battle, but it could very well lose them the longer war. And the mandate of the ODA was to always take the long view and evaluate miracle claims honestly.

  And then there was the girl with the holes in her hands, the girl who needed help from a psychologist, not validation of her neurosis from the Vatican. Calling this a miracle would only guarantee her complete destruction.

  Conrad was willing to jettison this girl—condemn her to a life of mental illness—for the greater good, and call it collateral damage. Call her collateral damage. But to Daniel, you cross that line and now you’re cutting God’s grass. It’s one thing to try and do God’s will, quite another to start making His decisions for Him. If pride was Daniel’s sin, it seemed a little less monstrous by comparison.

  Daniel said a long prayer for the girl, crossed himself, and returned his attention to the road ahead.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting this happen.”

  Father Nick, head of the Office of the Devil’s Advocate, shrugged broad shoulders, leaned back in his chair. “Out of my hands. His Eminence oversees both departments—if he wants you in World Outreach…”

  “I’m an investigator—I have no business over in Outreach. You know that.”

  “Easy, Dan. Your skills as an investigator are not in question.” Nick gestured at a chair across the desk. “Sit.”

  Daniel sat. “It’s politics, isn’t it? Conrad’s pissed because I won’t fake one for him, and he got Cardinal Allodi to go along.”

  “That would be my theory,” said Nick. “His Eminence didn’t share his deliberations with me. I lobbied for you, but…” He rose to the antique mahogany wet bar, poured golden Armagnac into a couple of crystal snifters. “I’ve skimmed your e-mails on the case. You say there’s no miracle.”

  “No miracle. Just a messed-up teenager sticking nails into her hands and feet when everyone’s back was turned.” Daniel took the offered glass. “And their backs were turned a lot. Everyone wanted it to be real.”

  Nick sat. “OK. I know it’s rough sometimes.”

  “The girl started self-mutilating at twelve. For three years, the whole town—family, friends, even her priest—treated her like a gift from God. I spent three days in that madhouse, and I can tell you, that girl is seriously broken.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “And we’re the ones who teach them that stigmata exists.”

  Father Nick fixed the younger priest with a firm stare. “Just because you haven’t seen it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

  But in a decade investigating miracle claims for the Vatican, Daniel hadn’t seen anything yet. Ten years of stigmatic self-mutilators and schizophrenics hearing voices and con artists pumping salt water through hollowed-out statues of the Blessed Virgin. Ten years of oil drum rust-stains that look kinda-sorta-almost like Jesus if you squint your eyes just so and hold your head on an angle and harbor an intense desire to see Jesus in a rust-stain.

  Ten years.

  Seven hundred and twenty-one cases.

  Not one miracle.

  It wasn’t as if Daniel wasn’t hoping for a miracle. But even setting aside the principles involved—even if he were willing to start down the slippery slope of ends justifying means—the girl in Nigeria would never stand up to scrutiny; she’d be exposed as a fraud. And putting the Vatican’s stamp of approval on a fake could lead to the kind of PR the Church didn’t need in the war for hearts and minds. “You’re not suggesting I change my verdict on this case, are you, Father Nick?”

  “No. There are those who wish you would, but I’m not one of them, and I already made that fact clear to all interested parties. But you need to face reality—the cost of that choice is I now have to loan you to Conrad for a while. I’ll continue to lobby His Eminence, and hopefully your exile will be brief.” He sipped some brandy and forced a smile. “Ah well, if God wants a miracle in Nigeria, He’ll just have to make one Himself.”

  “Come on, Nick, there’s gotta be something you can do. Conrad’s a first-class prick, I’ll go crazy working for him.”

  “You haven’t walked in his shoes,” said Father Nick. “The horrors he has to deal with…but you’re right, he is a prick.” Nick looked into his snifter for a long while, then took a slow sip. “Actually, there is a case I could claw you back into the ODA on, citing special circumstances, but—”

  “Special circumstances?”

  “That’s the problem. The very reason I don’t think I should assign the case to you.”

  “I’ll do it. Anything.”

  “I think it could be bad for you, kiddo. I’ve seen you get personally involved in cases before—”

  “One case.” Danie
l fought to keep the anger out of his voice. He’d done his penance for Honduras, but Vatican memories are long. Here they forgive, but they never forget. “Four years ago. Come on, Nick, I’m fine. I can handle it.”

  “I dunno.” Nick held eye contact. “How’s your faith holding?”

  “I’m working on it, as usual.” Nick didn’t respond, so Daniel quoted the older priest’s familiar phrase back at him, “ ‘Faith is a choice, not a state of being.’” He smiled. “I keep making the choice. That’s what matters, right?”

  “You’re not working on it, you’re running around looking for proof. You don’t think I know? Believe me, I know. You made a deal with God a long time ago: you’d pretend to believe, and He’d show His face, and then you’d really believe. And you know how I know? Because that was me as a young man. But time’s ticking, you’re not getting any younger.” Nick finally smiled for real. “Look, you’re my doubting Thomas and I love you for it. I hope someday when I’m old and senile enough, you’ll be sitting here in the big chair. But you do have to work on your faith. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

  Daniel shook his head. “What do you want me to say? I keep making the choice, even when I have to make it several times a day. I’m fine, really. I want this case, whatever it is. And the fact that we’re still discussing it tells me you could really use me on it.”

  Father Nick conceded the point with a nod. After a long silence he said, “OK. We’ve got a…well, an anomaly, let’s call it. And it has to do with your uncle.”

  Daniel played it twice over in his mind until he was sure he’d heard it correctly. A defensive snort escaped before he could rein it in. He followed with, “My uncle is a con man.”

  Father Nick held up his hands. “I know. I know, and that makes you perfect for it. You’re the best debunker in the business, and you know his particular tricks.” He picked up a television remote from the desktop. “Have you seen his show recently?”

  “It’s been a while,” Daniel said.

  Nick aimed the remote at a wide, flat-panel television perched on the antique credenza, and the screen came on blue. He pressed another button, and the blue screen was replaced by video of the Tim Trinity Prosperity-Power Miracle Hour. “This was taped last week,” he said.

  On the screen, Reverend Tim Trinity stalked the stage like a large predatory cat, right to left, left to right, pausing occasionally to connect with the camera, never fully at rest. The stage was dressed up like a pulpit, complete with faux stained glass windows (backlit, of course), balsawood columns painted to look like mahogany, and a clear Plexiglas lectern, downstage-center. Trinity wore a royal blue silk suit, white leather cowboy boots and matching belt. On his left wrist, a chunky gold Rolex, its face wall-to-wall diamonds. A wireless microphone curved around from his right ear, like he was God’s own telemarketer. On his right hand he balanced an open Bible, its pages edged in silver, its cover made of fine leather, dyed blue, the same bright shade as his suit.

  Daniel wondered if the suit had been selected to match the Bible or the Bible to match the suit.

  Trinity spoke with a pronounced New Orleans accent, and his patter flowed like brandy, perfected over more than twenty-five years on the tent revival circuit and in churches, then on television for the last fourteen. The man had his act down cold—didn’t even need the Bible, but for its value as a prop. And that was no small value. He brandished his blue Bible to maximum effect, flipped pages with a flourish, and punctuated important words by thwacking the pages with his left hand, calling attention to the bling on his wrist with each thwack.

  “Friends, I have some very bad news for you,” said Trinity, still smiling. “I’ve been called upon this day to reveal a hard truth. And I ain’t gonna sugar-coat it—thwack—NO, sir! I’m here today to tell you, most people who call themselves Christians have a fundamental mis-understanding of the nature of sin.” He stretched it into a two-syllable word.

  Trinity stopped at the lectern. His eyes fell shut and he pulled his chin to the right, offering his profile as the camera cut to a close-up. He held the Bible to his forehead for a few seconds, then lowered it, faced forward, and opened his now watery eyes, blinking rapidly. A man of God, on the verge of tears.

  “Forgive me. I must share with you what happened last night as I prepared today’s sermon. I was sitting in my study, pen in hand, and the Devil came calling. Yes, the—thwack—Devil! The Devil came to me last night and said, ‘Reverend Tim, stop what you’re doing.’ He said, ‘The people are not ready for this, you must not reveal it. Seal up these things and do not write them.’ Oh yes, and he presented himself to me as an angel of the Lord…but you and I know that the Lord would never stop a prophet from speaking the truth. So I said, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ and his white robes fell away and he stood before me as a naked beast.” Trinity blew out a long breath. “Was I afraid? You know it, brother! You bet I was. But more than afraid, I was—and I know that it wasn’t me speaking, but for the power of Christ, I know it was God speaking through me—I stood up from my desk and I shouted, ‘You Devil, go straight back to Hell! Take one step closer and I will strike you down—” Trinity slashed at an imaginary devil with his Bible “—and I will kick you down—” he stomped hard on the stage “—and I will beat you like a redheaded stepchild!”

  Daniel had seen his uncle’s act thousands of times and had hoped never to see it again. “What’s the point of this, Nick?”

  Nick kept his eyes on the television. “Keep watching.”

  Trinity held the Bible to his chest. “And just like that—glory be to God—the Devil disappeared, leaving behind only the stench of a goat.” He smiled and waved away the stench with the Good Book, and the camera cut away to the congregation as they laughed on cue.

  It was not the megachurch of a Joel Osteen or Creflo Dollar, but Trinity’s flock was not small. Daniel estimated about five thousand in attendance, give or take a few lost souls.

  Trinity let the laughter play out just the right length of time, then turned serious. “I know in my heart, my life was saved last night. Saved by God, so I could bring you this truth about sin. See, most folks think sin is bad behavior. You break God’s laws, and you have committed sin. But that is a mis-understanding of sin’s true nature. Those bad behaviors are not sin, not in the true sense. They are the result of sin. Sin is not something you do. In reality, sin is a demonic force that acts upon you, causing you to break God’s laws.”

  Trinity flipped a few pages and glanced at his Bible. “Romans 3:9—we are under the power of sin, 6:6 and 6:17—we are enslaved by sin, and 5:13—‘sin was in the world before the law.’” He waved a finger in the air and grinned like Clarence Darrow on closing summation to the jury, knowing he’d proved his case. “In the world, before the law. If sin was in the world before the law, then it is not caused by breaking the law, it precedes the law. You see? Sin is a demonic force that has power over us, enslaves us, and causes us to break God’s laws. Get back, Devil! Powers and principalities!” Trinity swatted the air again with his Bible. “Glory to God, I am telling the truth today! Sin is a demonic force that causes all our suffering.”

  Pacing the stage again. “People ask me, they say, ‘Reverend Tim, do you mean that poverty is a sin?’—thwack—YES! Poverty is a sin. God don’t want you to be poor of spirit, and He don’t want you to be poor of material comforts. God loves you—why would He want you to suffer? And poverty is suffering. Only the Devil wants you to be poor.” The toothy smile flooded his face once more. “But here is the good news: If you really want to live in abundance—abundance is yours for the taking! Word of God. All you have to do is act in faith. When you act in faith, God will return it to you one-hundred-fold. But you must sow your seed, or you cannot expect to reap the harvest of God’s riches.”

  Trinity stopped pacing, dropped the smile, looked straight into the camera lens. “I’m calling on you, right now, to make a thousand-dollar vow of faith to this television ministry. You know who you
are—I’m talking to you. You don’t have a thousand dollars right now, in the material world, but that’s OK—you vow it, and you start paying on it, in faith, fifty dollars, a hundred dollars, two hundred dollars, five hundred dollars at a time…and as you pay on your vow, God will take the measure of your faith, and He will begin to work miracles in your life! Word of God! Hallelujah!”

  Father Nick lowered the volume as Trinity assured viewers they could use any major credit card to sow their seeds of faith. “You know him better than anyone,” he said and gestured at the screen.

  “Knew him,” said Daniel. “Twenty years ago.”

  “Just tell me what you see.”

  “I don’t see anything. It’s the same old snake oil, and he still sells the crap out of it. Just a fancier package…nicer suit, bigger watch, better hairdo. The man knows his scripture, and the way he twists it, it always comes out Send Me Money. That’s all I see.” He searched for something else to say. What did he see? “He’s got a lot more followers now. Oh, and he’s had a facelift.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s sixty-four, and he’s a drinker. He’s had a facelift.”

  “What else?”

  Then it hit him. “Ah, he’s not speaking in tongues anymore. He used to sprinkle a lot of gibberish in with the rest of the pitch.”

  “Watch.” Nick paused the video. “He still does the tongues routine, but not as often. And it’s different now.” He hit play.

  Trinity continued his money pitch for another minute or two. Then he froze, mid-sentence, like an epileptic having a petit mal seizure. He stood stock-still for a few seconds. Then his lips began to twitch. His entire body lurched to the left. Then jerked again, harder, like he’d just stuck his finger in a light socket.

  And the tongues began. It was still gibberish, but Nick was right—it had changed. The tongues that Trinity used to speak sounded like a bad parody of some West African language, spiced with a little Japanese inflection. But what Daniel heard now was very different. The sounds coming from Trinity’s mouth were not like any language Daniel had ever heard. In fact, like nothing he’d ever heard. He couldn’t even imagine how to make them.