The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  “Yes. I’m all right.”

  “Groovy. Well, I gotta run catch my ride. We’ll be camping in Louis Armstrong Park. If you wanna hang with us, just look for the tent with the big yellow smiley face.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Thanks, maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Andrew turned without saying good-bye and wandered away, allowed himself to be drawn into the stream of people heading toward the street, like fans leaving the ballgame in the sixth inning of a blowout, each quietly carrying a piece of the team’s shame, made heavier by the shame of the apostate.

  He walked the seven blocks to his truck, and stopped short. What he saw made him sick.

  The blue tarpaulin was gone. All his possessions, everything that had been secured under the blue tarpaulin, gone. The gas cap had been pried open and the gas siphoned out, a length of dirty garden hose left hanging from the gas tank like a dead snake.

  This was not God’s plan…

  Julia glanced down at the business cards in her hand: FBI Special Agents Steven Hillborn (the handsome one with the square jaw) and Gary Robertson (the intimidating one with the ice-blue eyes). To Agent Hillborn, she said, “Like everyone else in the world, I’m betting he’s on the way to New Orleans. In fact, I’m flying there with my cameraman tonight. But it’s only a guess. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “You broke the story. You’ve had inside information since the beginning,” said Agent Hillborn. “And you’ve been in contact with him.”

  Ignoring the first part of his statement, Julia said, “Tim Trinity contacted me on Saturday afternoon. I’d left several messages with his staff, requesting an interview. He called me back and we spoke for about two minutes. He didn’t agree to sit down with me, but said he’d consider it and get back to me. And that is the only time I’ve ever spoken with him.” Every word was true…she just left Daniel out of it.

  “You’re not a lawyer, Ms. Rothman,” said Hillborn, “so do us a favor and stop parsing language. Frankly, you suck at it. Trinity is in way over his head on this thing. We understand he’s running scared—who wouldn’t be?—but he can’t outrun it, and he definitely can’t outrun us. If he comes in to us, helps us, we can talk to the US Marshals about getting him into the WITSEC program. We’re his best option for survival, I’m sure you can see that.”

  “I do see that,” said Julia, “and I hope he takes you up on it. I’d be happy to put you on camera, help you get the offer out to him.”

  Special Agent Robertson slapped the table with his right palm. “Hey, Cleopatra. Wake up. We’ve got over 140 dead bodies. Two explosions inside a week—one at a site designated critical to national security—while our nation is at war. And you are now officially wasting our time.”

  Special Agent Hillborn reached inside a leather folio, pulled out a photo, and slid it across the table: Daniel and Trinity leaving the stage at the tent revival in Greenville. Hillborn pointed at the photo, stabbing Daniel with his finger. “You used your MasterCard to wire five hundred dollars to a Western Union in Gadsden, Arkansas.”

  Julia’s indignation was blunted by the awareness that she was, in fact, obstructing the FBI in what was a clearly justified investigation. She felt her moral ground turning to quicksand. Better to focus on the indignation. “You’re looking at my credit card records? May I please see the warrant?”

  “Don’t need one,” said Agent Robertson. “If that bothers you, call your congressman and tell him to repeal the Patriot Act. Then listen to him laugh.”

  “The distance from Gadsden to Greenville,” said Agent Hillborn, “is 173 miles. The money was picked up at ten fifteen a.m. by a Mr. Daniel Byrne. Trinity showed up, with this man, at the tent revival in Greenville just under four hours later.” He shrugged. “Maybe they stopped for a sandwich.” He pushed the photo closer and spoke with exaggerated calm. “We are done fucking around, Julia. You have two choices: Continue to obstruct our investigation, in which case tomorrow will find you not in New Orleans covering the biggest story of your life, but in a jail cell while your lawyer begs a federal judge for a bail hearing sometime in the next week.” He handed Julia a printout of her own cell phone records. “Your other choice: Tell us what you know about Daniel Byrne and his business with Tim Trinity.”

  “It’s Julia.”

  “’Course it is.” Daniel reached over and switched the radio off. “You’re the only one with my number.”

  There was a pause on the line before Julia said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Who?”

  “A couple of FBI agents, they leaned on me pretty hard. I couldn’t legally refuse them…and anyway, they need to investigate this. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “It’s OK, Julia.”

  “They had my cell records, they could be listening in on my calls, so I ran to a payphone as soon as they left.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They think Trinity’s gotten himself mixed up with some very bad people, and they’re offering to get him into witness protection if he cooperates. They knew about the money I wired you, and they asked about your role in all this. I told them the basics: You’re a Catholic priest sent by the Vatican to investigate, and you told me how to decode the tongues. I gave them your number, so—”

  “So they’ll use my cell as a tracker and probably listen to my calls until they catch up with us.”

  “Danny, they want you to turn yourselves in for questioning. The longer you run, the worse it’s gonna look. Think about it. At least they could keep you safe. And if Trinity is innocent, then why—”

  “We’ve already been on the phone too long,” said Daniel. “I won’t answer this number again, and I’m not gonna call your cell.”

  “How will I—”

  “Remember our first date?”

  “What?”

  “Our first date, the first time we went out alone. Remember where we met?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, go there. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. If I don’t show up, try again the next day. I’ll meet you there at three o’clock. Oh, and I promise to be my usual punctual self.”

  Julia’s laugh was worried but warm. “I remember.”

  “Good. Thanks for the heads-up.” He snapped the phone shut.

  “What’s the trouble,” said Tim Trinity.

  “FBI.” Daniel pulled off the highway, into a truck stop.

  “Lemme guess: They think I blew up the refinery and rigged the lotto.”

  “At the very least, they think you know who did.”

  “I do. God did. But what are my chances of convincing them of that?”

  “Yeah,” said Daniel. He pulled slowly alongside a black pickup truck parked at the pumps, tossed the cell phone into its payload, and drove away.

  Daniel gave New Orleans a wide berth, cutting north all the way around Lake Pontchartrain, and then south into Cajun Country, past LaPlace, past Houma, picking up a new prepaid cell phone and an LSU baseball cap at a gas station along the way. Back in the truck, he tossed the ball cap to Trinity.

  “Go Tigers,” said Trinity, putting the cap on.

  They continued south, deeper into the bayou. The road narrowed and foliage thickened as the world became less about land and more about water. The air was heavy with it, hot and salty and vegetal. They rode with the windows down, and Trinity chain-smoked. Daniel didn’t mind; both men were getting a little ripe, and the smoke smelled marginally better than they did.

  He stopped on the shoulder and turned on the new phone.

  Pat Wahlquist had given Daniel his business card four years ago, after Daniel had smuggled Pat out of Central America. “If the shit ever hits the fan harder than you can handle,” he’d said as he pressed the card into Daniel’s palm. Daniel hadn’t looked at the card since, but he’d always kept it with him, just in case.

  He opened his wallet, dug behind the false flap in the billfold section, and pulled out Pat’s card. It read…

  PAT WAHLQUISTr />
  Slayer of Dragons

  …and a phone number. Daniel dialed the number. Pat picked up on the second ring.

  “Wahlquist.”

  “Pat, it’s Daniel Byrne.”

  “Daniel, my brother from another mother. Long time, long time.”

  “Yeah. You said if I ever—”

  Pat cut him off. “How can I help?”

  “Need a safe place.”

  “You called the right number. Where y’at?”

  “Just north of Dulac.”

  “Coming in hot?”

  “No. My cell was compromised, but I got rid of it outside Slidell.”

  “Awright, keep on coming south on the Grand Caillou. Number 7244—restaurant on stilts, called Schmoopy’s. I’ll be in the parking lot in twenty. You can follow me in from there.”

  “Got it,” said Daniel. “And Pat…”

  “Don’t you dare thank me,” said Pat Wahlquist. He broke the connection.

  “A mercenary driving a Subaru,” said Tim Trinity as they followed the green Forester. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

  “Pat and I bulled our way from Honduras to Guatemala in one,” said Daniel. “They’re solid. And check it out, up there,” he pointed, “it’s got a snorkel, you could drive through four feet of water.” He started to point out the crash bars and roof lights, but realized Trinity had just been bantering. He smiled back.

  “Quite a ride,” said Trinity. “Yesterday morning we were 2,500 feet up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, hanging out with the flying squirrels. And now we’re below sea level in the Louisiana swamp, hanging with Mr. Allie Gator and his pals.” His hand swept the scenery. They were no longer just in Bayou Country; they were now well and truly in the swamp.

  Pat slowed and signaled, turned right onto a one-lane covered with oystershell gravel. Just a thin finger of land, maybe thirty yards across, moss-draped cedars and shrubs, surrounded by the mangroves and cypress trees that rose from the water on both sides. Their tires crunched on the gravel as they rolled slowly along the finger, toward a one-story ranch house, surprisingly modern for the setting, situated at the end of the narrow spit of land. About fifteen yards from the house, a thick cypress had fallen across the road.

  Pat reached up to his visor and pressed on something like a garage door opener. An electric motor somewhere by the side of the road started, and the fallen tree slowly rose to standing. They pulled forward, past the tree, into a circular driveway. The tree came down behind them, once again blocking the road.

  Doesn’t matter if you run a barbershop, pharmacy, or gas station, remaining independent in today’s America is an uphill slog and the hill gets steeper with each passing year.

  Buddy had always taken great pride in his entrepreneurship, and he’d rejected all buyout offers from the multinational petroleum conglomerates. So the big guys did just what big guys do to mom-and-pops—they built a super-mega-store across the road and undercut his prices. In a few years, he’d be gone and they’d own the road.

  To fight back, Buddy had put an oil drum smoker and some picnic tables out back, and Buddy’s Gas Bar became Buddy’s Gas Bar & Bar-B-Que. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. So when the mob guys had come with their offer, Buddy added three video poker terminals to the place.

  FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY

  And for a stranger, that was true. Just a video game to waste your time and take your quarters. You could rack up credits for free games, and that’s as far as it went. But for locals in the know, the game was real.

  The mob guys had provided Buddy with a cashbox to pay out any winnings over twenty bucks, and they gave him a monthly rental fee for the floor space. Sure, it was illegal, but it was a common practice throughout the South, and Buddy needed the money. And the risk to his business license seemed minimal, since the guy they sent to empty the machines each week, Bam Price, was a sheriff’s deputy.

  Buddy watched Bam carry the three thick canvas bags out to his police cruiser. Bam locked the money in the trunk and returned to the gas station.

  “How’s the float, Buddy? Need topping up?”

  “Naw, thanks,” said Buddy. “No big payouts this week.”

  “OK.” Bam put a photo on the counter. “Have a look.”

  Buddy looked. “Yup, I’ve seen ’em.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “On the TV. Whole world’s lookin’ for them.”

  Bam chuckled. “Yeah, well, if you see ’em not on the TV, gimme a holler.”

  Buddy grabbed the reading glasses hanging from a chain around his neck, put them on his nose, and took a closer look at the picture. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I seen the younger one just today.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. He bought a cell phone and a hat.”

  “When?”

  “Couple hours ago. There was another man in his truck, but I didn’t see him too good, don’t know if it was the preacher. They left here heading south.”

  It cooled off some as evening fell. Pat Wahlquist made a crawfish boil, and they ate outdoors, piles of spicy crawdads and corncobs spread before them on newspapers covering the picnic table in the backyard. Half the yard was fenced off into a pen, about twenty feet square, ten feet tall, chain-link stretched over a steel pipe frame, even covering the top. Inside the fence, a doghouse, a soccer ball, an old tire, and some chew-toy made of knotted yellow rope.

  “Edgar’s playpen,” said Pat, scratching his coonhound’s ear. A handsome dog, splotches of black and white, with expressive brown eyebrows. Pat put a crawdad tail between his puckered lips, pushed his face forward, and Edgar gently took the crawdad with his teeth and ate it. “Who’s my spoiled puppy?” Pat baby-talked. “Who’s my baby?” Edgar licked him square on the mouth, then turned in a circle and lay at his master’s feet. A nickel-plated .12-guage pump-action Mossberg leaned against Pat’s leg on the other side.

  Daniel broke open another crawfish, sucked the head, dropped it in the communal pail in the middle of the table, and drank some sweet tea. He looked up and was startled yet again by Trinity’s new look.

  Trinity had resisted the idea, but Pat assured him that it would wash out, so he’d reluctantly taken the bottle and dyed his hair brown. Daniel had given Pat the Reader’s Digest version of their journey and told him the goal was to get Trinity into the French Quarter to see a woman, and back out again. The silver mane was Trinity’s most identifiable feature, so it had to go. Pat had lent them some clothes, shown them to a guest room with double beds, and they’d freshened up while he made dinner.

  With the dye job, Trinity more resembled the man Daniel lived with as a boy, and the effect on Daniel was almost surreal. Not altogether unpleasant, but profoundly strange, like he’d become unstuck in time, like Billy Pilgrim in that great Vonnegut novel Daniel loved as a teenager.

  Daniel ate one more crawdad and, realizing how full he was, declared it his last.

  “Make more sense for you guys to stay here,” said Pat, his tone signaling a return to the business at hand. “I can go and get the woman, bring her to you.”

  “No way,” said Trinity. “I’m telling you, it was a vision, me standing in front of her place. A vision. I have to go there.”

  Edgar sprang up, cocked his head at the waterline, and said, “Woof.” His attention was focused just to the right of the dock, to the right of Pat’s aluminum airboat, where the wake of a gator moved steadily toward shore.

  “Stay,” said Pat, and in one fluid motion, he stood and swept the shotgun into position, pumping a round into the chamber as he walked forward. He stopped about six feet from the water. The gator stopped about the same distance in the water, its snout and eyes just above the surface. They stared each other down.

  “Keep comin’ and your new name’s gonna be Handbag,” Pat told the gator. After a few seconds, the gator turned away and glided on down the bayou. “Tell your friends,” Pat called after him. He clicked the safety back on, returned to the table. �
��Tim, I’m agnostic about the metaphysics of your predicament,” he said. “Maybe you’ve been touched by God, maybe you’ve just gone batshit crazy. Not my area of expertise. My area of expertise is thwarting bad guys, and I’m telling you, it’s poor tactics to go there if you don’t have to.”

  “Not negotiable,” said Trinity.

  Pat looked to Daniel for help.

  Daniel shrugged. “What can I say? That’s the vision he had.”

  “All right, be that way.” Pat turned to Trinity. “Can I assume that your vision doesn’t prohibit me coming along to help protect you?”

  Trinity smiled, started to speak.

  “No,” Daniel interrupted. “Pat, I didn’t ask you—”

  “Fuck off, man,” said Pat. “I’d have been dead four years ago if not for you. So as long as it’s OK with the Amazing Kreskin over here, I’m in.”

  After a few seconds Daniel said, “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.”

  The bedside clock glowed 1:30. Tim Trinity still couldn’t sleep. Daniel’s snoring, while quiet by snoring standards, wasn’t helping any. And there was the anarchic symphony of frogs and crickets and God knows how many other nocturnal swamp critters, just outside the window screen. Trinity stood, tiptoed to the door, and slipped out into the hallway. Light from the kitchen spilled into the hallway, enough so he could make his way along, the smell of coffee getting stronger as he went.

  Pat sat at the kitchen table. The mug in his hand bore a US NAVY SEALS crest. Spread on the table, a street map of the downtown New Orleans, red marker lines indicating routes in and out of the French Quarter. On top of the map, a John le Carré novel.

  “Can’t sleep,” said Trinity. Pat gestured to the chair across, and he sat. “Got any bourbon?”

  Pat shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

  “Really?”