The Trinity Game (25 page)

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.

C
onrad 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 refuse 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:

ELEVATOR ACCESS CODE—018992

He paid the bill and headed for the lobby.

T
here was an envelope waiting for Daniel at the Westin’s front desk when he returned. No wax seal, but the stationery was every bit as fine quality as any used in the Vatican. Cream colored, 100 percent cotton, heavy stock, and it took fountain pen ink without a trace of feathering. A broad and flexible nib had laid down the emerald-green ink. The script told of a masculine hand, properly trained in penmanship. Boarding school educated, perhaps. The note said:

Daniel:

The Vatican’s response, while unfortunate, was expected. We are heartened that your loyalty is to the truth. You have chosen well; Trinity is the path.

Walk the path, find the truth.

But beware: There are thieves in the temple and mortal danger lurks nearby.

Be very careful whom you trust.

—PapaLegba

Whoever he was, PapaLegba certainly had flair. Daniel put the note away and returned to Trinity’s hotel suite. This time he drank his uncle’s bourbon.

“First, some ground rules,” he said, counting them off on his fingers, “One: I don’t work for you, so don’t treat me like an employee, and I don’t follow you, so don’t treat me like one of your flock.”

“Agreed.”

“Two: Don’t ever lie to me.”

Trinity raised his oath hand. “I swear. I want your help, lying wouldn’t serve—”

“Three: You stand in front of those cameras tomorrow, and the first thing you do is tell the world that you are not the Messiah.”

“With pleasure. I ain’t applying for that job.”

“OK. But what I told you before still stands. If this all turns out to be some massive con, I will make it my mission in life to ruin the rest of yours. I will expose you, with the whole world watching.”

Trinity reached forward and clinked his glass against Daniel’s. “I’ll hold you to that.” He drank the bourbon down in one gulp and refilled his glass. “Look, I understand you still suspect a grift…” He shrugged. “How could you think otherwise? But when that oil refinery blew, part of me died… I’m not lying to you. I believe in God, and this is no con.”

“Then you better tell me what you and God are planning.”

“Well, now you’ve pierced the heart of it.” Trinity’s hand shook a little as he sipped his drink. “I don’t have a clue what God is planning. He don’t tell me a goddamn thing.”

“He told you He wanted me at your right hand.”

“Danny. This thing didn’t come with an instruction manual. I’m fumbling around in the dark here.
Help
me.”

Daniel stepped back, rocked by the sudden and certain knowledge that there was no con, that it was all true…and by
the responsibility it imposed…and by the enormity of what they didn’t know.

He sat on the nearest chair, drank the bourbon.

Trinity’s smile contained no humor. “
Now
you seein’ what I see. Welcome to my hell.”

OK, all right, no panic. Use the brain God gave you, figure it out…

Daniel took a deep breath. “All right, let’s start with what we know. You’ve been given the gift of prophecy—”

“That’s a stretch,” said Trinity. “It just spews out of me at random, and I don’t even know what I’m saying when I’m saying it.”

“Maybe God doesn’t trust you with it yet, but it’s still prophecy. What else do we know?”

“We know it comes with money and power,” said Trinity.

Daniel made a face. “Do you ever think of anything else?”

“No, you’re not hearing me. It’s not about my desires. I already had plenty of money, but now I got money
simple
. That may be part of God’s plan, I don’t know, but we can’t ignore it. He musta known the dough would pour in when this went public. And the sermon tomorrow? Half a
billion
people might hear it, or read it in the paper. That’s power. And it petrifies me.”