The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  “Or your girlfriend.”

  “Goddamnit!” Daniel’s entire body welled with rage. “Yes, she saw it too, talk to her if you want. And—because I know you’re curious—I’m not fucking her, OK?”

  Nick turned his attention to the file folder on the desk. “You shouldn’t have come here tonight, Daniel. I’m not willing to discuss this while you’re so emotional.”

  “But you’re not listening to me.”

  “No, you’re not listening to me. This conversation is over.” Nick signed the top piece of paper in the folder, handed the form to Daniel without looking up. “Here are your orders: You are off this case. You are now officially on sabbatical, for spiritual renewal. You will go home and you will get some sleep. In the morning, you will fly to Florence, and from there you will be driven to Poppi, where you will engage in quiet meditation and prayer.” He sent Daniel a hard look. “Get your head together. At the appropriate time, I’ll bring you back to active duty.”

  The walls closed in on Daniel. The retreat just outside Poppi was a dumping ground for broken men—whisky priests with the shakes, spiritual burnouts addicted to online gambling, pedophiles addicted to altar boys—once you went in, you stayed until they decided you were fit for service. Some men lived there for decades. Others quit the priesthood to get out.

  Nick had sent Daniel to Poppi once before, four years earlier, after Daniel returned from Honduras with blood on his hands. He spent nearly five months in counseling at the retreat before he was deemed spiritually and psychologically fit to leave.

  “Nick, please, don’t do this.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it. Probably never should’ve assigned you to the case, but I thought you were strong enough to handle it. I was wrong.”

  “This isn’t like Honduras, I promise you.” He held the form out to Nick, but the older priest didn’t take it.

  “No, this is worse. Then, I was worried about your sanity. This time, your loyalty is in question.”

  Harsh morning light streamed through the east windows as Daniel paced between dresser and bed, filling a large suitcase with socks and boxers and T-shirts, trousers and toiletries and paperback crime novels.

  Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it.

  But Nick wasn’t just making sure Daniel would sit it out. There was no television at the retreat in Poppi, no radio, no newspapers. No contact whatsoever with the outside world. However this thing with his uncle played out, Nick was making sure Daniel would miss it entirely.

  Was that God’s will?

  Whatever’s happening here, it’s happening to your uncle. God doesn’t make coincidences that big. No way He’d want you to sit it out.

  Was Nick even thinking about God’s will? Or was protecting the “One True Church” from a Protestant/Holy Roller/con artist, the trump card?

  Or was that just Trinity talking, inside Daniel’s head?

  He snapped the suitcase shut, sat heavily beside it on the bed. The framed photo on the dresser caught his eye, and he picked it up. Eighteen-year-old Daniel Byrne, freshly minted New Orleans Golden Gloves Welterweight Champion.

  Julia had been in the stands when Daniel won the trophy. She didn’t like him fighting, couldn’t stand to see him get hit, but promised if he made the finals, she’d be there. And she was true to her word.

  Tim Trinity was also there, standing in the back row, drinking beer from a plastic New Orleans Saints go-cup, cheering louder than anybody, cheering: Danny, Danny, Danny!

  Daniel had refused to even acknowledge his existence, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him play proud papa. Instead he used Trinity’s presence to fuel his anger, and scored a knockout when he shattered the other boy’s nose thirty-three seconds into the first round.

  Now he looked at the kid he was, holding the trophy over his head and grinning for the camera. Grinning like he was the happiest kid in the world.

  You might’ve fooled everyone else, but you didn’t fool me…

  He put the photo back on the dresser, picked up a roll of white Title boxing tape and his gloves. God, he wanted to punch something. But he didn’t put them on, just dropped them in his carry-on.

  Maybe they’d let him set up a heavy bag at the retreat.

  Call it aggression therapy.

  A black car idled at the curb in front of Daniel’s apartment building. George leaned against it, smoking.

  Daniel stepped out into the morning light, dropped his suitcase, and put on his sunglasses. “I know the way to the airport.”

  “Father Nick asked me to travel with you today, look after whatever needs you might have along the way.” George didn’t put any effort into selling the line. There was no use pretending; they both knew it was bullshit.

  “He thinks I’m gonna go AWOL?”

  George shrugged. “Quit yer whining, Bono, this is as awkward for me as it is for you.” Then he let out a cruel grin. “Well, maybe not.”

  “Screw you, George.” Daniel hoisted his bag. “Pop the trunk.”

  So this was how far Nick’s confidence had fallen. He’d never made a secret of the fact that Daniel was favorite son among his investigators. Heir apparent.

  Now he didn’t even trust Daniel to get on a plane.

  I just can’t risk it…

  Daniel stewed and George gloated, both in silence, all the way to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, where George led the way through Terminal B, to the Alitalia check-in counter. They checked Daniel’s suitcase and picked up their tickets to Florence.

  They don’t send you to purgatory on a private jet.

  With time to kill, they found a business travelers’ lounge, grabbed some coffee and croissants, and settled in a quiet corner, where a television displayed a scrolling stock ticker.

  George snatched up the remote, aimed it at the television. “I’ll get a news channel, give you one final chance to watch your uncle.”

  One final chance. What a prick.

  “I don’t want to see it,” Daniel said. He stood up. “I’m gonna check the board, see if we’re on schedule.”

  George also stood. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonesome.” They crossed the lounge to the bank of flight information monitors.

  Daniel scanned down the departures list, past the Alitalia flight, his eyes stopping on any commercial flights to Atlanta.

  The next flight departed in seventy-five minutes.

  Virgin Airlines.

  Very funny, God. That’s a good one.

  The cut-off time for check-in was fifteen minutes away.

  Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out…

  Daniel watched his reflection in the monitor. Thinking: Just get on the damn plane and do your time in Poppi. Don’t throw your life away.

  They returned to the table, and this time Daniel got the remote first. He flipped channels, stopped on ESPN. Sportscenter was showing highlights of a thoroughbred race.

  The announcer was saying, “…a shocker at Aqueduct, as Mr. Smitten—a fifty-to-one underdog—comes steaming around the final curve and passes the entire field to win the Gotham Stakes, finishing eight-and-a-half lengths ahead of Executive Council, with Sweet Revenge showing in third…”

  The race Trinity had predicted, ending exactly as he predicted it.

  Daniel’s heart pounded, his head swam, and beads of cold sweat broke out on his upper lip.

  That Trinity had nailed it was no surprise, not after everything Daniel had seen in the last week. What shook him was that they’d just come in here on a whim, he’d flipped channels blindly, and landed right on this story.

  Was this God’s will?

  If God transformed Saul, the violent persecutor of early Christians, into the Apostle Paul—Saint Paul—the main architect of Christianity as we know it, might He not similarly choose a modern sinner against Christ to carry his message today? Trinity was many miles from bei
ng a man of God, but his sins paled when compared to Saul’s.

  We’re supposed to believe there is no sin so great, no sinner so wicked…No one is beyond redemption through the mercy of God.

  Maybe that was the point.

  Nick refused to even discuss the possibility. But Nick hadn’t been there.

  Ignoring George, Daniel grabbed his carry-on bag and stalked toward the men’s room. He burst through the door, headed to the sinks, dropped his bag on the white tile floor, braced his hands on the counter, and breathed long and deep.

  George came in after him, stopped, and said, “What the fucking hell is wrong with you?”

  “Anxiety attack,” said Daniel between breaths.

  George snorted. “Anxiety, is it? Well now, aren’t we precious?” He unzipped and used the urinal, zipped up, and came to the sink next to Daniel, held his hands under the automatic tap.

  Daniel straightened up slowly, stretched his hands over his head, breathed, said, “Sorry, I think I’m OK now,” and brought his arms down with full force, slamming George’s forehead into the faucet.

  “Fuck!” George jerked upright and Daniel silenced him with a flurry of fists to the solar plexus, pounding the wind out of him.

  As George slid to the floor, struggling for breath, Daniel dragged him into the large wheelchair stall, dragged the bag in after them, locked the door. He got George seated on the toilet, grabbed the roll of boxing tape from his bag, taped his mouth, wrists, and ankles. The cut wasn’t too bad, but foreheads bleed a lot, so Daniel quickly taped the cut as well. It would take a few stitches later.

  “I’d apologize, George, but the thing is, I’m not sorry.”

  George didn’t try to answer, but his eyes were full of murder.

  Daniel slid under the door, quickly washed the blood from his hands, splashed cold water on his face. He wiped his face dry with a paper towel, hooked a finger behind his clerical collar.

  And took the collar off.

  Sorry, Nick. I just can’t sit this one out.

  Atlanta, Georgia…

  By sunrise, the highways into Atlanta were jammed solid. Poor folks driving rusted-out beaters, pulling overloaded trailers, senior citizens peeking over the steering wheels of massive RVs, Deadheads with psychedelic peace signs and dancing teddy bears on their station wagon windows, and thousands of others along the shoulder, riding bicycles, or on foot, carrying large backpacks, carrying small children, making the pilgrimage any way they could.

  Some holding hands, many singing their faith aloud.

  His Eye is On The Sparrow…

  People Get Ready…

  I Shall Be Released…

  Walk In Jerusalem…

  Andrew Thibodeaux loved the singing. He loved the pilgrimage. Loved being part of something larger than himself, part of a tribe, loved being at the center of a fast-changing world.

  And he loved his secret knowledge.

  Because he knew what God was planning.

  He inched up I-85, willing his old truck not to overheat from excessive idling. The traffic was getting worse. He switched on the radio and spun the dial to a local talk station. One of those Morning Zoo–type programs, a couple smart-mouth jocks yukking it up at the Lord’s expense.

  –“…Can you believe these morons? They come to our city, no place to stay, no thought to how they gonna look after themselves—”

  –“My point exactly. And I aim to fix it. So, for any wingnuts listening: I had breakfast with God this morning. He said to tell you: ‘False alarm. Go home.’”

  –“Seriously though, we gotta read this update: The Atlanta Police Department has cordoned off the area around the Tim Trinity Word of God Ministries, where the parking lot has become a tent city. There’s no more room, do not go there. Same thing with Centennial Park. It’s cheek-by-jowl, and police are turning new arrivals away.”

  –“And don’t even dream of going to Buckhead, ’cause you will get your ass kicked. Rich folk don’t dig on hippies pitching tents on their lawns, pissing on the azaleas, and coming to the door begging for water.”

  –“Well said, brudda, and they got mondo private security up there. You get your ass kicked by Wackenhut, you will know your ass has been kicked, know what I’m sayin’? No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  –“And besides, the police have already confirmed Trinity is not at home and not anywhere in Buckhead.”

  –“He’s. Not. Even. There. Get it, people? So, for your own sake—and frankly, I don’t care if you do get your ass kicked—but for your own sake, please do not go to Buckhead. It’s getting pretty tense up there, and somebody’s gonna really get hurt if you people don’t get the hell back downtown.”

  –“Of course, that don’t mean you should go downtown. One more time, for the slow kids in the class: You should turn around, leave Atlanta, and go home. All we’re saying is stay especially out of Buckhead.”

  –“Think we beat that point to death, brudda?”

  –“Well, these people ain’t exactly paddling with both oars in the water…”

  Andrew shifted from neutral into drive as traffic again picked up to a crawl. The radio jocks were pissing him off with their attitude, and now he questioned the wisdom of calling that Julia Rothman woman. Maybe she was just part of the “Liberal Media Elite” that Rush was always talking about, just looking to mock the real Americans whose faith in God helped build this country.

  –“Next item…The governor and the mayor have released a joint statement—probably the first time those two ever agreed on anything. It reads: ‘The City of Atlanta remains open for business. If you’re a business traveler, rest assured that your hotel reservation will be honored. Reserved rooms are not being given away. Conventions have not been canceled, and the Georgia High School cheerleading finals will begin tomorrow as scheduled. You will need to add significantly to your estimated travel times in and around the city, but the city is open. If, however, you are planning a trip to Atlanta because of recent media reports concerning Reverend Tim Trinity, please reconsider. There are no hotel rooms left anywhere in the metropolitan area, and we cannot have millions of people living in our parks. We’re a hospitable city, but there is simply no room at the inn, and there is a limit to our patience.’”

  –“Whoa. Strong statement, doncha think?”

  –“I like the way they tried to thread the needle: Businessmen please come, whackjobs stay away.”

  Andrew snapped off the radio. None of it applied to him. He could live in his truck, he had money for food and water, and once he made himself known to Reverend Tim, he would be welcomed like Lazarus from the tomb. But there was clearly a dark side to this pilgrimage, and he was seized now by the thought that some of these people might not be true pilgrims—that something bad could happen to Reverend Tim.

  As the truck crept into the city, he saw a handmade banner, painted on a white bed sheet, hanging from an overpass.

  THE MESSIAH HAS RETURNED

  Presidential Suite – Westin Peachtree Plaza…

  “Fuck!”

  Tim Trinity slammed his safety razor down on the marble countertop as blood seeped from the vertical slice he’d just carved in his chin, turning the shaving cream red. Electrical signals screamed up the nerves from his chin to his brain.

  Goddamn, that stings…

  He splashed cold water on the cut—might as well have been lemon juice—and reached out to grab the styptic pencil from his leather Dopp kit to staunch the flow of blood. But his hand jolted sideways and knocked the bag off the counter. Pill bottles and moisturizers and nose hair trimmers and tweezers clattered across the bathroom floor.

  The high-pitched buzzing in his brain surged, kicking his headache into migraine territory, signaling the imminent arrival of the tongues.

  This one’s coming on fast…

  Trinity snatched a face towel off the bar and pressed it against his chin as he maneuvered his body into the expansive bedroom, his movements now beyond twitchy, heading toward spast
ic.

  He yanked open the bedside table’s drawer, reached behind the Gideon’s Bible and pulled out his Ziploc baggie of cocaine, convulsed his way back into the bathroom, and managed to get the baggie open. He poured the white powder out onto the smooth marble countertop and leaned forward.

  Hold it. Stop right there…

  Trinity straightened and looked into the mirror, and his reflected self looked back at him. The bloodshot eyes of his reflected self held an intensity he’d never seen, and he couldn’t look away.

  An idea rose to the surface of his conscious mind, taking on shape and texture and weight as it came into focus, like a long-forgotten memory that, once remembered, could never be forgotten again.

  OK, God. You want to use me? I’m yours…

  The idea gave him an instant joy, but he fully understood what it demanded and the joy quickly gave way to abject fear. A wave of regret washed over him. He wanted to take it back, to un-say it, to bury his nose in the mound of white powder and draw deeply its offered escape, to snort it all in one go and end the voices, the tongues, the spasms. End them all.

  End them now, and maybe forever.

  Summoning every ounce of his bullheaded will, and before he could change his mind, he swept the cocaine into the sink, spun the tap, and flushed it down the drain, fear growing into terror, heart pounding in his chest. He looked back at his reflected self.

  I accept this curse…this gift…this obligation. I will not stop the tongues. I will bring your messages to the world…

  But saying it only increased his panic, and his stomach began roiling.

  He threw up in the sink. It purged the fear, not a lot, but maybe just enough. He washed his mouth out with tap water, looked back at himself in the mirror.

  You can do this, Tim. You’ve been a showman all your life; you’ve got the skills. Just put on that smile for the people and bluff it through, balls-out.