The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  Veves of the damned.

  But other homes told a better story, one of endurance and rebirth, of stubborn faith in the possibility that tomorrow can be made better than today. Those houses stood up straight and their windows sparkled and they wore new coats of paint and pride.

  And as the crowd walked, so did it grow. People came down off porches and out of trailers, children ran from their yards, and by the time the parade passed Fats Domino’s yellow house with the big star above the door and the gold-tipped iron fence, the crowd was more than two hundred strong.

  Still not enough, but getting better.

  On St. Claude Avenue even more joined their ranks, teenagers from the KFC and women from the Family Dollar parking lot, men from barbershops and bars. Shopkeepers looked out from doorways and people in the crowd called them to join with Reverend Tim, and OPEN signs turned to CLOSED in the doors of their shops, and the crowd grew even stronger.

  As they passed the Gasco, a brass band fell in and started playing “Saints,” and soon as many in the crowd were dancing as walking, many others singing along, the mood rising above festive, on the way to joyful.

  But not for Daniel. He kept about ten feet to his uncle’s left, Pat on the other side, scanning the crowd for the face of an assassin. White folks made up only about a quarter of the crowd, an advantage since he was looking for a white face. His eyes never stopped roaming, scanning the crowd, scanning windows and doorways, occupants of passing cars, cataloging white faces, dismissing black faces, moving on to the next. But the crowd was growing fast, and the task would only get harder as they got closer to the French Quarter.

  They crossed Reynes, the drawbridge ahead, now clearly visible through the heat haze hanging in the air.

  Daniel’s earpiece crackled and Pat said, “OK, approaching the first choke point, and I smell bacon.”

  “Think they’ve had time to find us?”

  “Yup. No cars coming over the bridge, and I don’t think it’s just a lull in traffic. Be ready.”

  A large sign with red letters stood in the neutral ground…

  …but nobody stopped. Daniel glanced at his watch, pressed the talk button. “We’re bang on schedule.”

  Pat said, “Let’s hope everyone is.”

  As Daniel glanced at the cloudless blue sky, two gray sedans came over the bridge side by side and stopped at an angle, blocking both sides of the road. Special Agents Hillborn and Robertson and six other hard-looking feds got out and strode forward. The bells sounded and the bridge began to rise behind them.

  The parade stopped. The brass band fell silent. Then, as the FBI men approached, the crowd coalesced around Trinity. An angry black man with a gray beard and dreadlocks called out to them, “Yeah, now you come down to the Lower Nine, where the fuck were you when we needed you?”

  “That’s right,” said a young woman in the crowd. “And why you ain’t investigatin’ them rich folk who made off with the money, what was supposed to be payin’ for the levees, huh? What about that?”

  Shit. This was not going to help.

  Daniel separated himself from the crowd and walked directly to Hillborn and said, “Hi.”

  “Hi? That’s what you’re bringing to the party?” said Hillborn. “Hi? You fucking moron, did you really think we were going to let you do this?”

  “You’re not taking him from me,” said Daniel.

  “Actually, we are.”

  Daniel smiled as the sound of rotor blades grew louder and Hillborn glanced skyward. The news chopper had arrived. “CNN. The world is watching, Agent Hillborn.”

  Hillborn glared at Daniel, then shook his head. “Oh, you silly man, you are just determined to make things worse, aren’t you?”

  “With respect, you’re just flat-out wrong here,” said Daniel. “Our elected representatives are on record supporting Trinity’s right to speak. Do you really want to be the government thug-in-a-suit who slaps cuffs on him and shoves him into a car, and then he’s never heard from again? That’s what the secret police do in places like Iran. You really want to be that guy?” He glanced up at the news chopper, adding, “I’m sure it’ll make good television.”

  Daniel stopped talking and watched Hillborn think over his options. After what felt like a week, Hillborn said, “Stay put a minute. I’ll get back to you.” He turned and walked back to his car and sat in it, talking on his radio.

  Daniel’s earpiece crackled again and Pat said, “Hang tight.”

  “Where are you?” said Daniel, scanning the crowd. “I can’t see you.”

  “Just working the room, checking out new arrivals,” said Pat. “Speaking of which, your view is about to improve. In five…four…three…two…”

  Julia came up fast and put a hand on Daniel’s forearm, “Sorry we’re late. Lost the satellite for a few minutes, but Shooter got it fixed.”

  Daniel looked toward the back of the crowd, saw Shooter approaching from the CNN news van with a camera on his shoulder. “Aside from giving me a minor heart attack,” said Daniel, “your timing is actually perfect.”

  “Hi, Daniel,” Shooter said, handing Julia a microphone and stepping back with his camera. “We’re on in sixty seconds.”

  Hillborn’s conversation became visibly more animated after Julia and Shooter arrived. Finally he tossed the radio mic on the seat, got out of the car, and crooked his finger at Daniel.

  “Good luck,” said Julia.

  Daniel walked through the thick, muggy air, careful not to rush, past assorted FBI agents, all the way to Hillborn. Along the way he flipped the switch, putting his walkie-talkie into transmit mode for Pat to listen in.

  Hillborn said, “The FBI’s position is as follows: Considering the bombing at his church in Atlanta, we strenuously advise Reverend Trinity against any public appearances at this time. We believe that he is acting with reckless disregard for his own life, and we are not equipped to provide for his safety. If he chooses to go forward, we will not stop him, but neither can we protect him. The only assistance we can reasonably provide is to help divert traffic ahead of the parade route.”

  “Reverend Trinity certainly appreciates the help,” said Daniel with a smile.

  Hillborn signaled to the other agents, and the drawbridge bells clanged and the bridge started coming back down as the agents returned to their cars. He let out a derisive snort. “Understand: you haven’t won anything at all. If by some miracle he’s still alive when this day is over, you’re both going to prison. I promise.”

  Daniel shrugged. “And I promised I’d get him to the podium. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Daniel flipped the walkie-talkie off transmit as he walked back toward the front of the crowd, looking for Pat’s green bowler hat. Pat’s voice crackled in his ear. “Nice job with the feds. Meet me in front.”

  Daniel wiped the sweat from his brow and walked closer as the green hat appeared in the crowd, bobbing forward. They came together at the front line and Pat said, “Full props to the man with the cockamamie plan.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now shake it off and get your energy back up.” He broke eye contact and scanned the crowd behind Daniel. “Drapeau is still out here somewhere. We don’t find him before we get to the podium, Tim dies.”

  As the feds disappeared over the bridge, a trumpet blared and a huge cheer erupted from the crowd. Tim Trinity emerged from the protection of the throng to lead them forward, the brass band launched into “Didn’t He Ramble,” and the party resumed.

  Atlanta, Georgia…

  After the call came in from Conrad Winter, Father Nick had no choice but to pull the plug on the operation. He summoned all of Conrad’s men back to the command center, canceled any further investigation, and ordered all Trinity files wiped from the hard drives.

  He thanked the young men working the command center for their efforts, sent upstairs for a few bottles of good brandy, and made sure everyone who wanted a drink had one. />
  Then he sat back with his snifter and watched CNN.

  As far as the Vatican was concerned, the Trinity game was over. It was time to cut their losses. To Nick, the most painful loss was Daniel Byrne. A good man, gone.

  A good man, gone wrong.

  Nick told himself to stop speculating about how it all happened. No doubt Conrad was truthful about presenting his amnesty offer to Daniel. Nick had successfully sold Cardinal Allodi on the idea, and no way Conrad would disobey a direct order from Allodi. Anyway, Conrad was returning to Atlanta on a one thirty flight from New Orleans, and he would hear all the details soon enough.

  Conrad had told Nick that Daniel turned him down flat. Whatever the details, they wouldn’t change that basic fact. Nick would just have to accept it and move on.

  He sipped some brandy and focused his attention on the television screen. An aerial view of well over a thousand people walking down the middle of a wide street, through an intersection and past a large building that seemed an impossibly bright shade of pink. Then the screen changed to a ground-level view from a handheld camera moving with the crowd.

  And there was Reverend Tim Trinity, wearing his shiny silk suit, waving his famous blue Bible, flashing his perfect fake teeth, leading a parade of uneducated misfits, drunks, and hippies, dancing and singing through the streets like it was Mardi Gras day.

  It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic.

  Tim Trinity, tent revival Holy Roller, charismatic faith healer, cable TV prosperity preacher…master con man. P.T. Barnum for the new age.

  And, undeniably, some kind of prophet. But there was no way to know what kind, and the risk was too great, and so he would be stopped. If the Nevada mob didn’t get him, the FBI surely would. Trinity’s voices, whatever their origin, would not be allowed to change the world, when nobody who mattered really wanted the world changed. On that, you could bet the farm. It was all over but for the gnashing of teeth.

  The camera stopped moving and focused on Julia Rothman, the ex-girlfriend reporter Daniel had brought into this case, thereby setting in motion the chain of events that led to this…disaster. Rothman cupped a hand over one ear and raised her voice to speak over the sound of a brass band marching by behind her.

  Nick picked up the remote and turned up the volume.

  “…just past Elysian Fields, and it’s hard to estimate the size of the crowd, but it is definitely growing more rapidly now, and as you can see, the atmosphere is very lively. Impromptu street parades are part of the fabric of daily life in the Crescent City, and most of the people behind me are not religious followers of Reverend Tim Trinity but local residents, simply come out to pass a good time...”

  As if to prove her point, a couple of drag queens paused behind her, vamping and blowing kisses at the camera before dancing off with the rest of the crowd.

  “The real test will come when we reach Esplanade, where a much larger crowd awaits. I’m told the crowd assembled there numbers over ten thousand, packing Rampart Street all the way back to Louis Armstrong Park, but the National Guard is blocking the street, refusing to let them move forward…”

  Tennessee Williams Suite – Hotel Monteleone…

  William Lamech muted the television and dialed room service.

  “Yes, send up a cup of turtle soup, two dozen oysters on the half shell, and a bottle of…” he scanned the wine list, “Bollinger R.D., 1990. Thank you.”

  Let the rock stars have their Cristal, Lamech thought as he brought the television’s volume back up. When the second-best is truly excellent, the key factor to consider becomes best value. The Cristal was superlative, but to his mind, the 1990 Bollinger was plenty excellent, for a lot less money. That’s why so many rock stars ended up broke, while he had built a legacy that would make his progeny comfortable for generations to come.

  It’s a funny old world; if you live long enough, you’ll see things you could never have imagined. He remembered that sunny day three weeks ago, when he first brought the news of Tim Trinity’s predictions to his colleagues and had to convince them that it wasn’t a joke. If you’d told him then that it would cost five million dollars to end Trinity’s life, he’d have laughed you right out of Nevada. And if you’d told him that, in just three weeks, “Reverend Tim” would lead a march of over ten thousand people through the streets of New Orleans, carried on live television around the globe, he’d have thought you completely insane.

  A lot can change in three weeks, and by God, had it ever.

  And considering what Trinity had become in that brief time, five million dollars was very good value indeed. There are times when the second-best just isn’t good enough.

  He shifted his gaze from the television across the room to the laptop computer open on the coffee table in front of him. What a beautiful example of cause and effect in its purest form: Trinity dies on the television screen, and I press a button on the computer. I press a button on the computer, and money moves from a bank account in the Bahamas to a bank account in Switzerland.

  William Lamech had no doubt it would be accomplished. He just hoped Lucien Drapeau wouldn’t pull the trigger until the champagne arrived.

  “This is impossible,” said Daniel, bulling his way between a couple of stoned surfer dudes, pushing through the crush of the mob.

  His earpiece crackled and Pat said, “Roger that. Move closer to Tim and look for my hat. Can’t see you, but I’m guessing I’m somewhere around your two o’clock.”

  Daniel got around a woman pushing a stroller, worked his way forward, looking slightly to his right. It was wall-to-wall people, the entire width of Esplanade, covering sidewalks, roadway, and neutral ground.

  And here, on the edge of the French Quarter, the crowd had to navigate around the huge old oaks in the center of the road and the thinner trees planted at regular intervals along the sidewalks. The oaks provided a much-needed umbrella for shade—many in the crowd were verging on sunstroke as they arrived—but the same umbrella of branches and leaves also blocked Daniel’s view of the second-floor balconies, packed with people, many leaning out over the wrought iron railings to cheer the parade on and shower the revelers with colorful plastic beads.

  Lucien Drapeau could lob a grenade down from above and there’d be nothing anyone could do. But that didn’t sound like the kind of precision Pat had talked about. Daniel hoped Pat was right.

  He spotted the plastic green bowler and worked his way through the chaos up to Pat, walking a dozen feet ahead of Trinity, who had several men from Priestess Ory’s congregation and the angry man with the dreadlocks walking in formation, forming a protective box around him.

  Pat put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and spoke directly into his ear as they walked. “Need to change tactics. Drapeau wouldn’t try to get up close in this crowd. He’s a professional, not a kamikaze.” He gestured toward the men surrounding Trinity and Ory. “We gonna have to take the chance that these guys will protect him from any crazies and focus on where Drapeau is most likely to be.”

  Daniel nodded. “Fine. You said Drapeau was a sniper.” He started walking faster.

  “Used to be.”

  “What’s the range? How far are we talking about?” Daniel broke into a jog, leaving the parade behind, and Pat stayed with him.

  “He could make the shot from twelve, fifteen-hundred meters, maybe more.”

  “We gotta get out from under the trees.” Daniel pointed at the sidewalk on the uptown side. “You take the buildings on that side.” He jogged over to the sidewalk on the left and continued toward the end of the road, toward the Mississippi River.

  The sidewalk was still crowded with spectators, but not packed the way it was in the midst of the parade, and Daniel could maintain a quick walk, weaving around people, keeping his eyes up, scanning the balconies as best he could.

  He pressed the talk button. “Got nothing here, almost at the last block—”

  His gaze stopped on the profile of a man, about six-four, wearing
running shoes, jogging shorts, and a red mesh muscle shirt, terrycloth wristbands and headband. Bald head. He quickened his pace, lost sight of the jogger, pushed his way around a fat man and through a group of college kids…and found the jogger again, a little farther down the street.

  Daniel broke into a fast walk. “Pat, I think I see Drapeau. Head my way.” Closer now, he could see the man’s head had that distinctive bullet shape and his ears were small. The man turned his way. No eyebrows.

  They locked eyes. Lucien Drapeau’s expression remained dispassionate, not even a twitch of emotion, but Daniel could see the spark of recognition, and then something in Drapeau’s eyes went out, like a switch had been flipped in his head, and he took off at a dead run.

  Daniel took off after him. His earpiece came alive and Pat said, “I see him! Hauling ass down Barry Street, away from the Quarter, red tank top!”

  “I know,” yelled Daniel, not bothering with the radio. They converged at Barry Street and got past the spectators and ran flat out, down the center of the street.

  Drapeau’s lead was just half a block, but he darted right, disappearing from view, into the courtyard of the Melrose Housing Project.

  Two rectangular redbrick apartment buildings, each four stories tall, faced each other across the courtyard, and a third formed a back wall to the compound. The buildings had never reopened after Katrina and were awaiting demolition. The government had installed metal shutters over all the ground-floor windows and padlocked the doors.

  In the center of the courtyard, four old men sat on crates, listening to a portable radio and passing a bottle in a paper bag. One of the old men turned his bleary gaze toward Daniel and, without saying a word, pointed his finger at the building at the back of the lot.