The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  “Then what is the purpose?”

  “Don’t know.” Trinity put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, just as he’d done at Judas’s backyard funeral. “But I do know He wants you here with me. Had me a dream last night. God told me He wants you at my right hand.”

  “Now He talks to you in dreams?”

  “I think He did last night. Maybe He…maybe He wants you here, to keep me on the narrow path.” He let out a wry chuckle, “You, of all people, know that ain’t gonna be easy for a guy like me, and I sure could use your help. And your advice.”

  “My first advice is to tell you to stop acting like a carnival barker.”

  Trinity shrugged. “Tough habit to break after thirty-nine years. I’m working on it. Like I said, it’s the theater of the thing. But I need advice about the deeper stuff, the stuff I don’t understand. Hell, I got US senators callin’, asking my advice. I gotta go in front of the cameras tomorrow and talk to the whole world…” he rattled the ice in his glass, “…and I don’t know what to say. I need you, Danny. I need to talk it out with you.”

  Daniel put his untouched bourbon on the bar. “I don’t know, Tim.” He headed for the door. “I’m gonna go for a walk, get a chilidog.”

  “You’re coming back, though, right?” The fear in his voice was unmistakable, and genuine.

  Daniel nodded. “To let you know what I decide, one way or another.”

  “Then if anyone says to you, ‘Look! Here is the Messiah!’ or ‘There he is!’—do not believe it. For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and produce great signs and omens, to lead astray, if possible, even the elect. Take note, I have told you beforehand.”

  —MATTHEW 24:23–25

  Daniel sat on a red plastic chair in the Varsity Diner, reading his Bible. On the white Formica table, a Heavy Dog, large orange drink, fried apple pie…untouched.

  “Hey sailor, come here often?”

  Julia.

  Daniel looked up. “How’d you find me?”

  She sat, plopped a massive purse at her feet. “Your uncle called.”

  “But how did he know—” Then he smiled, despite himself. “Chilidog.”

  “Chilidog?”

  “When I was a kid, he brought me here, probably a half dozen times a year, whenever he worked revivals in the area. Told him I was going for a chilidog.” He glanced down at the food. “You hungry?”

  “Starving!” She smiled with her whole face.

  He slid his tray across. “Can’t seem to work up an appetite.”

  Julia picked up the Heavy Dog and dug in with great gusto, coming away with a red chili moustache. “Such a lady,” she giggled. “Napkin?”

  Daniel took the paper napkin, warm from his lap.

  Don’t do it…don’t you do it…

  He reached across the table.

  Do. Not. Do. It.

  And wiped the chili off her mouth.

  His heart set to racing. Something twinkled in Julia’s eyes, and as she took the napkin, it seemed her hand lingered on his longer than strictly required to make the exchange. His pants got tight. He became aware he wasn’t breathing, forced himself to resume.

  “So,” Julia said, “who goes first?” She drank some orange, tore another chunk off the dog with her teeth.

  “You’re eating, I’ll go.” He opened his Bible to the page he’d been reading. “Then if anyone says to you, ‘Look! Here is the Messiah!’ or ‘There he is!’—do not believe it. For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and produce great signs and omens, to lead astray.”

  “Lemme guess: Jesus, right?”

  “Yes, Jesus. Matthew 24:23.”

  Julia chewed, swallowed, sucked orange drink through the straw again. “So?”

  “It matches, 24:23. The billboard accident. He said it would come down at exactly twenty-three minutes after midnight, and it did. A day is twenty-four hours. Twenty-three minutes after midnight is 24:23.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” her hand came to rest on his, “no, no, no. That way lies madness.” A smile, gentle and kind and perhaps a little worried. “Numerology? Please, I know you’re smarter than that. I mean it with love, but really, you can’t go down that road.”

  I mean it with love? But that’s just a thing people say, and her tone was light.

  “Yeah…I know. Just feeling a little desperate for answers, I guess.”

  Her hand left his and picked up the fried pie.

  “So how was the trip? What did your boss say?” She raised the pie to her lips.

  “Careful with the fried pie, they’re blistering hot inside. My boss? Well, if you mean God, I’m still waiting for an answer. But if you mean my boss at the Vatican, I’m not willing to talk about it.”

  “I thought we’d crossed that hurdle.”

  “Didn’t mean it like that. I’m not willing to talk about it with anyone. I’m trying not to even think about it.”

  Julia abandoned the fried pie, picked up the drink. “Take a walk with me?”

  They strolled along North Avenue, past Grant Field, and up Cherry Street, into the Georgia Tech campus, all lush green trees and stately brick buildings, a world apart from the insanity taking place only blocks away.

  “Been playing phone-footsie with Liz Doherty—Trinity’s gatekeeper—for the last couple days,” said Julia. “You know, laying out all the reasons I should be the one to interview him: I broke the story, my coverage has been fair, I’m a hometown gal…have to admit, I was tempted to tell her I was a friend of yours, but I couldn’t allow myself to play that card without talking to you first. Anyway, my phone rings an hour ago, and it’s him. Not his people, Trinity himself. Wouldn’t agree to a sit-down, not yet, but said you were at the Varsity, and he was worried about you.”

  “How’d he know you even knew me?”

  “No idea.”

  Daniel took off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to him, get you inside for a meeting.”

  Julia stopped walking. “You don’t have to.”

  “I don’t have to. I will. He can’t hide forever, and you’ll be fair.”

  “Thanks,” her smile like an embrace. “How’s he doing with all this? He sounded a little rattled on the phone.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with him,” said Daniel, “but I don’t like what I see.” He cleared his throat. “I came back here against orders, burning bridges, and what did I find? A world gone mad, a million worshipers outside Trinity’s door, and Trinity playing it for all it’s worth, raking the money in and bragging about it. He says he now believes, and he seems to mean it, but his actions betray him. I don’t know what the hell to do.”

  “People don’t change overnight. He says he’s changing, maybe he is. Maybe it’s another con. You can deal with that disappointment—you’ve done it before—but how would you deal with having walked away, never knowing for sure?”

  They continued up Cherry, turned right onto the redbrick path to Tech Tower. Young men and women sat on the grass, in the shade of old oaks, alone and in groups, with backpacks and laptops and cell phones, studying, joking, flirting.

  Another life. A youth he could’ve had, had he made a different choice.

  “There’s a bench,” said Julia, “let’s sit.”

  He kissed her. Just grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard on the mouth. She tightened at first, but then softened into him, and their mouths opened and he pulled her closer, pulling their bodies tight.

  It was heaven.

  And heaven tasted like chilidog.

  Julia jerked her head away. “Stop!” She shoved him back, hard. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I—uh, I…You kissed me back.” A lame defense, but it was all he had.

  “I’m not a priest! I’m allowed.” She hooked a few long strands of hair with her little finger, moved them out of her eyes and behind her ear. “I refuse to be the reason you break your vows or quit the priesthood or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking
of doing.”

  “Yeah, the thing is…I may have already quit the priesthood.”

  “What?”

  He held up a hand. “Not because of you. At least, mostly not. Well, it’s complicated.” Daniel let out a rueful chuckle. “I seem to be saying that a lot these days.” His face grew hot and his throat tightened. His eyes began to well, but he fought it back in time. He blew out a long breath.

  “Talk to me, Danny.”

  “God, I’m…confused. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Begin anywhere. Just begin.”

  “Know what I wish? I wish we could stop time, just you and me, just for a day…step out of our lives, away from this madness, spend a whole day talking, you know, like we used to.”

  “Time marches on,” she said quietly, mostly to herself. She took his hands in hers. “I care about you, but…if you decide to quit the priesthood, it can’t be mostly not about me. It can’t be about me at all.”

  “OK, but you do care about me.” It was all he’d heard.

  “As a friend.” Julia drew a sharp breath. “Danny, it was over for us a long time ago. And it’s going to stay over, even if you quit the priesthood. Don’t have any illusions about that.”

  She turned and walked away from him. She didn’t look back.

  Daniel sat alone, on top of Stone Mountain, wondering how the world could’ve changed so quickly. He sat for a long time, watching the sun set the sky ablaze. Atlanta in silhouette, skyscraper monoliths left behind by a civilization no longer in existence.

  How could he have been so stupid? All those little signs—the secret smile in her eyes, the lingering of her hand on his, the casual throwaway lines—could they all have just been his projection of his own feelings?

  No. Not after that kiss. OK, so it was the first time he’d kissed any woman since the last time he’d kissed the same woman, fourteen years ago.

  Fourteen years. God, fourteen years. How do fourteen years pass so quickly?

  Anyway. Maybe he wasn’t the most qualified man to judge a kiss, but he was a man, and there was a moment—just as she relaxed, until she broke contact—when the kiss went both ways. In that moment, Julia’s passion was real.

  And that moment felt longer than the last fourteen years of Daniel’s life. Longer, and maybe more significant.

  But then she did break contact, and said: It was over for us a long time ago. And it’s going to stay over, even if you quit the priesthood. Don’t have any illusions about that.

  No wiggle room in that statement. Goddamnit. It made him feel like he’d swallowed a brick.

  The sun was getting low in the sky. Time to head down. With the highways jammed, it would be a long drive back to town on the side roads.

  Daniel stood and walked among the rainwater rock pools scattered around the surface. Like craters on the moon. When he was a boy, his uncle said the little craters were made by God’s fingertip. Said that Stone Mountain had once been a prime meeting place for the Ku Klux Klan, and whenever God saw a Klansman walking on the rock, He’d poke his finger down in a bolt of lightning and crush the Klansman like an insect.

  Stone Mountain was the other Atlanta ritual. Sometimes before the Varsity, sometimes after, but Tim and Danny’s Atlanta adventures had always included both.

  The sun was almost at the horizon. He should go now. Instead he moved closer to the northern edge of the mountain, sat cross-legged.

  One time, when he was about seven or eight—he couldn’t remember exactly—they’d been caught at the top of Stone Mountain after dark, in a massive electrical storm. The Skyride cable cars had been shut down because of the storm, and the tourists scampered like wet cats down the slippery hiking trail, children wailing and women screaming and men shouting, thunder booming all around them as lightning strobed just over their heads.

  Between lightning flashes, it was so dark you could barely see five feet ahead. The hot summer rain came down in buckets. A bolt of lightning struck so close the earth shook below their feet and Danny’s ears started ringing and he was blinded for a full minute. He grabbed his uncle’s leg in a bear hug, helpless, whimpering, sure that this would be the end. The other tourists were all down the hill by now, out of sight. But Danny couldn’t move from fear.

  Tim Trinity squatted down and took the boy by the shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and smiled like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “You’re safe with me, kid. You’re always safe with me.”

  With the boy attached to his leg, Trinity walked calmly to the sheer northern face of the mountain, right to the edge, stood tall and spread his arms wide, like Moses parting the Red Sea. His unbuttoned windbreaker flapped wildly, like wet wings.

  Trinity’s voice boomed into the storm, “In Jesus’s name, I command and declare! No harm shall come to this child of God on this night! All the angels of heaven shall guide our steps, and we will walk safely down this mountain, so that we may partake of chilidogs at the Varsity! So it shall be, and so it is!” He lowered his hands, winked at the boy. “OK, we’re good. Let’s roll.”

  They hiked down the mountain through the pouring rain, hand-in-hand, under the protection of angels. And, amazingly, Daniel felt no fear.

  They drove, soaking wet, to the Varsity, and ate chilidogs and fried pies in the Winnebago. And laughed about the storm.

  On that night, Tim Trinity was truly magic, and Danny was the happiest boy in Atlanta.

  Daniel stood again, brushed his hands against his pant legs. He walked right to the edge—the sheer face of the mountain where Trinity had commanded the angels—and inched forward, until the tips of his shoes poked out over the edge.

  He looked straight down, and the tingle began. Then spread his arms wide and held them there, muscles in his legs and core twitching to compensate for the buffeting wind.

  He leaned forward at the waist…

  Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

  Adrenaline surged, his nerves became electric. He held his position, felt for the exact point of balance—the tipping point—found it, teetered on the balls of his feet for a few seconds.

  He imagined falling.

  Like the dream of falling that jerks you back from the edge of sleep.

  He jerked his body back from the edge, took a few deep breaths.

  The sun was at the horizon. It was time to go.

  Conrad Winter sat with a drink in the bar of the Westin Peachtree, waiting for a text message that was fifteen minutes overdue, wondering if he’d miscalculated, if it wouldn’t come at all. The cell phone rang—not a text—and the screen told him the call was coming from the Office of the Devil’s Advocate.

  “Nick,” said Conrad, putting a smile in his voice, “an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?”

  “You can knock off the happy horseshit, for starters. Just got some very disturbing news from Nigeria.”

  “Yes, I heard about that,” said Conrad. “Very sad. Poor girl. A hit-and-run is what I heard.”

  “And you’re the one who benefits.”

  “Actually her entire country benefits,” countered Conrad. “The locals are celebrating the girl as a miracle, too good for this world, called home by God. Thousands are turning away from radical Islam and coming to us.”

  “You’ll go to hell for this, Conrad.”

  Conrad stiffened. “Don’t be absurd. I realize we do things in Outreach that you academics in the ODA find distasteful, but you can’t possibly think I would ever sanction the death of a child.” He downed the rest of his drink. “I may go to hell, Nick, but not for this, which of course—of course—I had no part in. Am I making myself clear? It was just a tragic accident. Given the situation in Nigeria, I can’t say I’m sorry it happened—and I ref
use to pretend it isn’t good for us—but that doesn’t make me the monster you imagine me to be. And if you don’t believe me, if you really think I had anything to do with it, I suggest you file a report with Cardinal Allodi. Asshole.”

  Conrad hung up, put the cell phone on the bar, and picked up his drink, overwhelmed by a bone-deep sadness. The girl in Nigeria would now be remembered as a miracle and no longer needed the Vatican’s official stamp. Daniel wouldn’t certify her, so she had to die. Regrettable, but necessary.

  No, it was much worse than regrettable, it was horrible, it was monstrous.

  But still necessary.

  And Conrad might very well go to hell for it, among other things. But the world was at war, with the fate of humanity quite literally hanging in the balance. And war makes monsters, even on God’s side. So he made that choice, a long time ago. To become a monster, to willingly sacrifice himself to hell, in order to win the war for God. People like Nick and Daniel would never understand. They’d only thank him when the war was won.

  And Conrad believed that, when his time came, God might give him a dispensation for his service to the cause.

  He had to believe that.

  Anyway, the girl’s death was having the desired effect, slowing the tide, buying time for the council to move their tin soldiers and weapons to where they were needed, and the Nigerian oil would keep flowing. For now.

  And Conrad couldn’t afford to think about it—he had more pressing concerns. Ever since the Trinity Anomaly broke public, he’d been expecting the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation to rear its hypocritical head, and he’d gotten confirmation last night from a council operative in New York City. A one-line e-mail that read: Carter Ames leaving on foundation jet. Destination: Atlanta.

  The director’s words echoed in Conrad’s ears. Carter Ames is the most dangerous man you will ever meet. The director was not given to hyperbole, and Conrad would be careful not to underestimate Ames. But the challenge sent a thrill through him just the same.

  Conrad’s phone buzzed, this time with the text message he’d been anticipating: