“My—?”
“Hurricane Danny. Made landfall in Lake Charles, but the Big Easy got drenched, couple hundred homes destroyed. Including thirty-three I’d personally written up. And guess what? Bedrock welched, some technicality written into the fine print. Didn’t pay out a goddamn dime to those folks. I quit the next day and gassed up the Winnebago again.” He placed the pen back in his pocket. “I keep it as a reminder. Sure, I’m a grifter, but there ain’t no clean way to get rich, and my grift never hurt anyone. Not like that.”
Daniel wanted to say, It hurt me, but the words caught in his throat. “It hurts plenty of people,” he said.
Trinity stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray. “OK, Danny. You come here to tell me I’m a scumbag? Mission accomplished.”
Daniel shook his head. “Not a social call. I’m here on business.”
“Thought you’d become a priest.”
“I am a priest.”
“But…” Trinity gestured to his neck.
“I work out of uniform most of the time.”
“Lucky you. So what does the Catholic Church want with a man like me?”
“We want to know how you’re doing it,” said Daniel.
“Doing what?”
“The tongues.”
Trinity’s eyes went wide. “What do you know about that?”
“We’re on to you. I also know about the cocaine…which is a new low, even for you.” He’d planned to confront his uncle with the surveillance photos, but now he’d lost the taste for it.
“Yeah, I’m using, but that’s because of the fucking voices,” said Trinity. “What do you know about the tongues?”
“How are you doing it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What about the predictions?”
“The hell are you talking about? What predictions?”
Trinity was a skilled liar, but there was no mistaking real desperation in the man’s voice. “Your tongues act. You play it backwards, speed it up, it’s English. You’re making predictions. And they’re coming true.”
Trinity’s face went ashen and he slumped back into his chair. “Jesus…Fucking…Christ,” he said, between ragged breaths. “No. No, that’s just not—no, it isn’t…it’s just not possible…”
Daniel smiled without any humor. “You can do better than that.”
“No, you’re lying. You must be lying…” Trinity’s confusion looked genuine, but then, he was good at this. “You gotta believe me, Danny, I don’t know anything about any predictions.”
“Given that my entire childhood was based on a lie, you’ll understand if I choose not to believe you,” said Daniel. He turned to leave.
“No, wait! Please. Something strange is—I-I don’t know what the hell is happening to me.”
Daniel watched in silence as his uncle reached for a bottle of bourbon on the dressing table, uncorked it, and poured with a shaking hand, the bottle’s neck rattling against the edge of the glass. Trinity put the bottle down and steadied the glass with both hands as he drank. He looked nothing like the big and powerful man from Daniel’s childhood memories, nothing like the confident preacher on stage in front of a crowd.
“See, it’s not just the tongues,” said Trinity. He tapped on the side of his head with an index finger. “It’s also the voices.” A tear tumbled down his right cheek. “I’m scared, son. You gotta help me. I’m shit-scared.”
Could this all be an act? It didn’t seem like one.
Daniel took the chair across from Trinity. “I still think you’re full of shit, but I’ve been sent here to find out what’s going on with you, so I’ll listen. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. And be warned: if it turns out you’re running some con, I promise you will be one sorry-assed con man.”
William Lamech sat in his expansive office, twenty-three floors above the Las Vegas Strip. The glass city shimmered beneath him as the sun moved into the western sky. He pushed a button on a control panel set into his desktop, and the floor-to-ceiling windows automatically darkened to a comfortable level. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. It was the third of Arthur C. Clarke’s three laws of prediction. He’d forgotten the other two, but he enjoyed this one and it pleased him to remember it.
The phone on his desk trilled softly, and he answered it.
“Mr. Lamech, it’s me.”
“Go ahead.”
“That priest you said to watch for, he’s here. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Well, he doesn’t look like a priest. I mean, he’s a young guy, doesn’t look like a square. And he ain’t dressed like a priest. But it’s the name you gave me, Daniel Byrne.”
“You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“Baptist.”
“Well, they don’t all look like Max Von Sydow.”
“Uh…yes, sir. I guess not. One other thing, might not be important…”
“Yes?”
“He’s the preacher’s nephew.”
The preacher’s nephew. It brought Lamech forward in his chair. “Interesting. Where is he now?”
“I took him to Trinity’s dressing room, and they talked for about an hour. Then he left. I got his license plate.”
“OK, good work. Keep your eyes and ears open, call me back whenever anything similarly interesting jumps out at you.”
“Yes, sir. And, uh, Mr. Lamech?”
“Yes?”
“I just, you know, I’ve been with the company eight years, I’m dependable, loyal, competent. And…”
Lamech smiled to himself. “Ambitious.”
“Yes, sir. Ambitious. I just want you to know, I could do more. So whatever you need, just keep me in mind.”
“I see. We all have our jobs to do, but opportunities for advancement occasionally arise, and you don’t get if you don’t ask.”
“That’s exactly it, sir. I mean, I love my job, but you don’t get if you don’t ask.”
William Lamech respected the ambitions of young men. “All right, good to know. No promises, but I’ll keep it in mind, in case something comes up in future.”
He hung up, leaned back in his chair. The preacher’s nephew. Hell of a coincidence, and why would the brain trust at the Vatican send the man’s flesh and blood anyway? Seemed like a major conflict of interest.
The computer speakers on his desk pinged. He put on his reading glasses and clicked the mouse, opened the new e-mail, and read the decoded transcript of the preacher’s latest tongues act.
“Holy crap,” he said. He grabbed the phone, punched in three numbers. “Steve, it’s Lamech. Grab a pen. Do not take any of the following bets on the Gotham Stakes—Mr. Smitten to win, Executive Council to place, Sweet Revenge to show. Got it? I don’t care what the line is, you do not take those bets. Good.” He placed the receiver back in its cradle.
So now the preacher was predicting the ponies. And just two months until the Kentucky Derby.
Goddamn.
The time for prudence was quickly coming to an end. If the Gotham Stakes prediction came true and they had nothing yet on the preacher, information gathering would give way to action.
He picked up the phone again.
The room was white. Ceiling, walls, floor. All white. No furniture. Just a white, windowless room with no door. Not exactly standing in a cloud of dry ice at the pearly gates, but this much was certain: Daniel was dead.
There was another man in the room. He was what people call ruggedly handsome. He wore black pants and a clerical collar over a white muscle shirt. A priest with serious guns.
He said, “Hi, Daniel, I’m Saint Sebastian,” and held out his hand. Casual. Friendly.
Daniel shook the hand of Saint Sebastian. “I’m dead,” he said.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Saint Sebastian winked at Daniel. “Not exactly what you expected.”
“No.”
Saint Sebastian shrugged. “Peter’s down with the flu. I’
m filling in.”
Daniel felt lightheaded. He made himself nod.
Saint Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. “That was a joke. Lighten up, will you? Breathe.”
Daniel gasped, worked to catch his breath.
“Good. In, out…deep breaths, slow down…excellent. Now just relax, everything will be clear in a minute. See, I’m here to do two things. The first is to calm you down and explain the rules.”
Daniel calmed instantly. Thinking: Impossible.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” said Saint Sebastian. “You’re thinking: That’s already two things. And you’re right. Thing is, calming you down doesn’t count, they just send us to explain the rules. But if we don’t calm you down first, the explanation goes nowhere.”
Is this for real? But not out loud. Out loud, Daniel said, “What are the rules?”
“Rules are, we don’t sweat the details here. So you can stop worrying about how many times you jerked off or if you did the right things with your life. You’re either one of the good guys or you’re not. And you were one of the good guys.” A sly grin, like they were teenage boys sharing some locker-room joke. “Tried to be, anyway. The mixed results don’t matter. You did more good than bad.”
“That’s it? That’s the metric? More good than bad? Heaven’s going to be a lot more crowded than I imagined.”
“Not exactly.” Saint Sebastian moved to his left. And again. Like a boxer. But his hands hung loose at his sides. “There’s one more criteria. A test. Different for everybody. Well, not everybody. People aren’t as different from each other as they imagine. There are a thousand different tests. One thousand, exactly, for all the souls in the universe. I looked it up.” A third move to the left, flawless footwork sliding him into slow orbit around Daniel. “Anyway, the test is the second thing. And I’m here to administer it. Your test is to fight me.”
Daniel pivoted, took a small skip-step back, keeping Saint Sebastian directly in front of him. The saint now raised his hands, adopting a true fighter’s stance, and continued to make his way around Daniel in a tight circle. Daniel pivoted again, but kept his hands below the waist. Adrenaline leaked into his bloodstream and his heart beat faster and his hands wanted to make fists. He forced his hands to stay open.
“I’m not going to hit you—you’re a saint.”
“A saint who’s been sent here to kick your ass,” said Saint Sebastian. “Understand? Because I don’t want to start this dance until I’m confident you get it. I’m about to beat the crap out of you. I would feel a lot better about it if you’d put up a defense. Sure enough, you’ll be judged by your actions, but nobody expects you to take it like a dog.” Up on the balls of his feet now, circling faster. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, you’re free to go wild on me, unleash the beast. That’s your judgment to make. Or you can go all Queensberry Rules, if that’s the way you roll. But don’t just stand there like some used-up journeyman laying down for a bottle of Night Train.”
“I must be dreaming,” said Daniel. “I’m dreaming.”
Saint Sebastian snapped a left jab off Daniel’s nose. The pain brought white blotches to his vision. As his vision cleared, blood began to leak from his nose, down his upper lip.
“I’m trying to give you some good advice here, son,” said Saint Sebastian. “You’d do well to listen and heed me. I beseech you to fight.”
A sharper jab. Square on the nose.
“Ow!” said Daniel. “That fuckin’ hurt.” He could taste his own blood now. His hands came up. Fists.
“Game on,” said Sebastian.
It did not begin well. Sebastian was a better boxer in better condition, and Daniel had no idea what to do with himself. But after withstanding an opening flurry, Daniel blocked a jab and drove a right hook into Sebastian’s ribs, stepped back and snapped two jabs off the saint’s nose. The right-cross caught only shoulder, and Sebastian came back fast. Daniel ducked a hook, pulled away from the left uppercut, circled in time and delivered a straight right to the solar plexus that stopped Sebastian’s orbital dance. Followed with two left jabs to the nose, but Sebastian took the second one on the forehead.
Daniel moved in, pinned Sebastian’s upper arms in a clinch, and sucked air. “OK, I fought you,” he panted. “Can we stop now?”
Sebastian bit off Daniel’s right ear, crimson-sprayed it to the floor, and broke the clinch.
“Faked you out with that Queensberry shit, huh?” He flashed a sympathetic smile full of bloody teeth. “Smarten up, son. Your only job here is to survive this thing. Got it?”
Sebastian set his feet and drove a fist into Daniel’s abdomen.
Daniel’s stomach spasmed, legs went out from under him, and his knees hit the canvas.
As Saint Sebastian shuffled his feet and moved in for the next attack, the bell rang, signaling the end of the first round.
The alarm clock was ringing. Daniel slapped it off, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and planted his bare feet on soft carpet. The drapes were open, as he’d left them, and daylight flooded the hotel room.
Images from the dream lingered. What the hell was all that? He took a minute to shake off the cobwebs, then called room service and ordered breakfast. He said his morning prayers, then went through a set of push-ups, crunches, and Hindu squats, followed by a quick shower and shave. He ate while listening to the audio file of Trinity’s latest tongues act, which had arrived by e-mail from Gerry during the night.
It started with a new installment of Trinity’s Jimmy the Greek spiel, predicting that Mr. Smitten would win the upcoming Gotham Stakes at Aqueduct, finishing eight-and-a-half lengths ahead of Executive Council, with Sweet Revenge coming in third. Then another weather report of no consequence. But what came next robbed Daniel of his appetite.
“If you work at the oil refinery in Belle Chasse, Louisiana, do not go to work on Tuesday. Do not go to work. Anyone near the Plaquemines Parish refinery should get some distance. There will be a terrible accident, an explosion. Tuesday morning. Many lives will be lost.”
Daniel grabbed his cell phone, speed-dialed Father Nick’s private line. Nick picked up on the second ring.
“What have you got for me on the good reverend?” said Nick.
“I’m sending an audio file. Listen to it and call me back.”
Daniel hung up, forwarded the audio file to Nick’s e-mail address. Five minutes later, his cell rang.
“Did you hear it?”
“I did.”
“He said Tuesday morning. Tomorrow is Tuesday, we gotta plan our move.”
“Oh, please. It’ll just play out as one of Trinity’s swing-and-miss predictions.”
“You’re wrong, Nick. I checked the transcripts in the case file against the archived broadcasts. Trinity doesn’t miss. All of his predictions have come true. Every one.”
After a very long silence, Nick said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. This case was compromised before you even assigned it to me. Someone at the Vatican altered Giuseppe’s transcripts to make Trinity wrong.”
Another long silence. “Interesting. I’ll look into it.”
“My guess would be Conrad,” said Daniel. “Don’t know what his game is, but—”
“I said I’ll look into it.” Nick cleared his throat. “Now tell me what you’ve learned about Trinity.”
Daniel started to speak, but nothing came out. He reached for the camera on the nightstand, flicked it on, and began scrolling through the digital photos he’d taken on surveillance two nights ago. Even on the camera’s little screen, the photos were damning. Trinity snorting coke in his den.
“Tell me you got something,” said Nick.
“I think Trinity’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Serious trouble. Out of control. I saw him snort cocaine.”
“Get pictures?”
Trinity had told Daniel everything, including the reason for the cocaine. The story h
ad been so wild that Daniel was left not knowing what to believe. “You sent me to debunk the guy. The fact that he snorts coke doesn’t debunk anything.” He put the camera down. “I met with him. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think he’s in control of the tongues. He claimed no knowledge of the predictions. When I told him, he was pretty shaken up, and I think he’s telling the truth. Maybe.”
Nick snorted a rough laugh in Daniel’s ear. “Trinity hasn’t told the truth since Carter was in the White House. Bottom line, we have to undermine his authority and get him off the air. And you’re wasting time. A coke habit will do the trick.”
“What about the oil refinery?”
“Forget about it. You have a job to do.”
“People are going to die, Nick.”
“If that’s God’s will.”
Daniel’s blood surged, and he tamped down his temper. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “We have the knowledge to stop this from happening.”
“Give your head a shake, kiddo. God is not talking through Trinity. Let’s get that straight.”
“I know that.”
“Then the knowledge in our possession did not come from God. Which means we are not supposed to have it. You think Trinity’s tongues act is otherworldly? Don’t forget, Satan speaks through people too.” Daniel didn’t answer. “What now?”
“I don’t even know if I believe in demonic possession,” said Daniel. Thinking: I don’t even know if I believe in Satan.
Nick sighed into the phone. “Whatever’s happening to Trinity, it’s not God.”
“But—”
“Listen. Disasters happen every day, and people die every day. We can’t know why that is, but if nothing else, we must believe God has a larger plan, beyond what we can see. Because if we can’t believe that much, then all is chaos and there’s no point. You need to take the larger view. If the oil refinery explodes, that is God’s will. Who are you to mess with that? Don’t presume to take God’s place. You are not Him.”
The Trinity Game Page 8
