The Trinity Game (28 page)

Tim Trinity had never heard five thousand people make so little sound. He stood in the darkened wings, stage-right, waiting for his cue from the floor director. A small monitor on a plywood crate showed the master feed from the control room.

The director had done exactly as Trinity instructed. There was no opening jingle, cross-fading into canned church music; no video montage of happy, successful Christians; no sparkly
Tim Trinity Prosperity-Power Miracle Hour
graphic sweeping across the screen. Instead, the simple title card—A MESSAGE FROM REV. TIM TRINITY—faded up over black, stayed for fifteen seconds, and faded back down.

He turned to Daniel, “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

The floor director counted down
4–3–2–1
with his fingers in the air and pointed at Trinity as the stage lights came up to blinding intensity.

The crowd roared as Trinity took center stage. He flashed his toothy smile, made calming gestures with both hands.

“Please, thank you for your enthusiasm, but no cheering. Please, really…”

The crowd fell into obedient silence.

He rested his hand on the blue leather Bible perched on the Plexiglas lectern, found the camera with red light glowing, and looked directly into its unblinking black eye. He cleared his throat.

“I know y’all want me to tell you about this…” a glance back to Daniel in the wings, “…this
gift of prophecy
that God seems to have bestowed upon me. But before I talk about that, there’s something I need to make absolutely clear, so we will have no misunderstanding about who, or what, I am.”

He picked up his Bible, stepped in front of the lectern. “I am not—” He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. “I am not…well, I’m not sure what it is God wants from me. I do think he’s fixin’ to reveal something important to the world, but I do not know what it is. I am not in control of the tongues, He is, and when they come upon me, I have no knowledge of what I am going to say or what I am saying. Sometimes I think God speaks to me, but he has not yet seen fit to give me direct orders.”

His eyelids grew unbearably heavy, and he allowed them to fall closed.

Lord, I am a blank slate, an empty vessel…

I invite you now to speak through me…

Forward, backward, sideways, it don’t matter…

I beg you, do it now…

Please, television hates dead air…

His eyes popped open and he said, “Paul was wrong, and James was right…” He wanted to open his Bible to James 2:26 and give the page a dramatic
thwack
. But that was the old Tim Trinity, and the new Tim Trinity’s hands would not play along.

So he just opened his mouth again, and heard himself say, “Faith without works is dead.”

He stood for a long time, waiting for more. Looked out into the front rows of the audience. A sea of faces, open, eager, waiting along with him.

Nothing came.

He closed his eyes again, although they did not feel heavy anymore.

Come on, God, you’re makin’ me look a fool up here. I invited you in with an open heart, what else am I supposed to do?

For the first time, he heard the voice of the Lord.

And the Lord said, “Get off the stage.”

Trinity opened his eyes to the waiting world.

“That’s all I have for today.” He forced a smile, flashed his perfect implants at the crowd. “But stay tuned, folks, somethin’ big is coming…soon.”

The crowd cheered as if he’d just parted the Red Sea.

D
aniel stood in the wings, watching his uncle on the television monitor. Trinity was saying, “…there’s something I need to make absolutely clear, so we will have no misunderstanding about who, or what, I am.” He picked up his Bible, stepped in front of the lectern. “I am not—” A slow blink. “I am not…well, I’m not sure what it is that God wants from me.”

Damn. He didn’t say it…

The backstage door opened, drawing Daniel’s attention from the monitor.

A man stood, half-hidden by the big metal door, looking in from the hallway. Daniel walked deeper into the backstage darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he got a better look at the man. Under six feet, short black hair, average build, wearing some kind of uniform. Gray polyester slacks with black piping up the leg and a red polo shirt, with black stripes. There was a logo patch on the shirt.

Daniel crept around a black curtain, came at the man from an angle, slowly closing the distance, staying behind a stack of crates, until he was just twelve feet away. The logo was a cartoon fire hydrant, with the words Bulldog Couriers. There was something under the man’s shirt, tucked into his pants at the belly.

Something with a sharp corner.

Chris was all the way on the other side of the stage, too far to signal. He glanced around for Samson, couldn’t spot him. He approached the man, said, “Excuse me—”

The man bolted.

The door slammed shut.

Daniel crashed through the door, into the bright hallway. The man had a good lead, but the hallway was crowded and he pinballed off a member of the stage crew and tumbled over an equipment cart, scrambled up, took off again.

Daniel flew after the man, hurdled the overturned cart, caught up with him just shy of the front lobby, grabbed his collar, and sent him face-first into the cinderblock wall.

“Ah, shit! You broke my nose!”

Daniel spun him around, reached under his shirt. “Shouldn’t a run.”

The man held his hand against his gushing nose, blood flowing between his fingers, as Daniel ripped the gun from his waistband.

Only it wasn’t a gun.

It was an autograph book.

The man spoke in a rush of words. “My wife’s a big fan and I told her I’d try to get his autograph and I used my uniform to get backstage and I know it was wrong and I’m sorry…” He spat some blood on the floor. “…But if you tell, I’ll lose my job at Bulldog, and I really need this job. Please, man, let me go.” He gestured to his face. “I think I’ve paid the consequences, don’t you?”

Daniel shoved the autograph book into the man’s hands, pointed to the front door.

“Go on, then. Get out.”

Daniel trudged back down the hallway, feeling pretty low. He’d just broken an innocent man’s nose for the crime of wanting an autograph.

Awesome move, Dan…very Christ like…

The sermon was over by the time he got back. He met Samson in the hallway.

“What happened?”

Samson shrugged. “He cut it short, don’t know why. Promised more to come. We’ve got a disturbance out front, I gotta tend to that. You’ll find him in the dressing room. Stay there, I’ll come for you after we get the all-clear. Chris’s waiting down at the car. We’ll have you outta here in a half hour.”

Trinity was in the dressing room, but he wasn’t alone. There was also Jennifer Bartlett and Liz Doherty and some young men setting up a computer station next to the makeup table.

“Danny, there you are,” said Trinity. “Liz, tell him what you just told me.”

“Well, we’ve been talking with the city,” said Liz Doherty, “tryin’ to find a way to ease pressure on infrastructure, and it looks like we’ll be doing the show from the Georgia Dome next week. The Georgia Dome! Isn’t that terrific?”

“Yeah…swell,” said Daniel.

“Not sure why, considerin’ the giant egg I just laid out there,” said Trinity. “But did you hear them at the end? They loved it.”

“Don’t worry, Reverend Tim,” Jennifer said with a Texas twang, “I thought you were wonderful. The tongues don’t happen every time, we all understand that.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“I had to miss it,” said Daniel.

“Didn’t miss much.” Trinity sipped some bourbon, then chuckled, trying to shake it off. “Ah, what the hell, we’ll get ’em next time.” He turned to Jennifer. “Darlin’, do me a favor, find Samson, find out what’s holding us up. I want to get back to the Westin.”

Jennifer smiled broadly, said, “On it, chief,” and hip-swished out of the room.

Trinity said, “Georgia Dome’s gonna be somethin’ else, but ya know, I think I’m gonna miss this place, I’ve become rather fond of it.”

Daniel wondered exactly what there was to miss in this place. There would be another dressing room just like it, another dressing table, another three-way mirror. Another mountain of unopened mailbags would accumulate just as this one had grown, dirty and gray, except for the new black one with the Bulldog Couriers logo and the—

Bulldog Couriers. The autograph book…

Oh, shit!

Daniel flew across the room, grabbed his uncle’s arm.

“Everybody get out!” He yanked Trinity toward the door. “Out! Everybody out!”

Nobody moved. Trinity pulled his arm back. “The hell is wrong with you?”

Daniel couldn’t get the words out. “Mailbag, some—I, a bomb, I think—we gotta go. NOW!”

Trinity’s eyes went wide, a look of desperation on his face. “Where’s my Bible?” Before Daniel could stop him, he’d crossed to the dressing table, next to the tech guys setting up the computer, next to the pile of mailbags.

As Trinity picked up his Bible, Daniel caught his arm again and yanked him into the hallway, yelling, “Run! Everybody run!” He got his arm around his uncle’s waist, forced him to pick up the pace.

“Stairs,” Daniel shouted as they ran down the hallway. Trinity pointed to a door, and they banged through it, into the stairwell.

A concussive blast rocked the building, and the stairwell lights flickered. Trinity stumbled, but Daniel steadied him. “Faster! C’mon!”

Muted screams of horror and howls of pain followed as they flew down the concrete steps and into the underground garage.

Daniel’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he could make out Chris sitting in the limousine, just thirty feet away.

“Chris!” he shouted as they ran to the limo.

But Chris didn’t move.

Chris had a bullet hole in his forehead. He was duct-taped upright in the seat, and his dead eyes stared at nothing.

Daniel jerked at the door handle. Locked. He spun to face Trinity. “Your car—”

“Over there.”

They ran across the garage, to Trinity’s red SUV. Trinity beeped the locks with his remote. Daniel snatched the keys from his hand.

“I’m driving,” he said, yanking the door open and shoving Trinity forward. “Down on the floor, outta sight.” Trinity scrunched down into the foot-well, his chest on the passenger seat.

Daniel stuck the key in the ignition, cranked it, and the engine roared to life.

Behind them, the stairwell door banged open. Daniel turned his head. Samson came running into the garage, gun in hand.

Thank God…

Samson made eye contact with Daniel—a split second that seemed to last an hour—and then raised his gun and pointed it at him.

Daniel threw it in gear, mashed the accelerator to the floor.

Tires squealed on concrete, found purchase, and the beast shot forward.

Samson unloaded at them from behind—
pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap
—and Daniel heard
thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk
as bullets hit the SUV, but he kept his eyes forward as they sped up the ramp and shot out into the blazing sun.

The sidewalk at the end of the driveway was full of Trinity’s Pilgrims. Daniel leaned on the horn, jammed the brakes, saw a clearing, wrenched the wheel, hit the gas, and tore across a patch of grass and onto the road.

“You hit?”

“What?”

“Are you hit?”

“No,” said Trinity, “fine.” He wriggled up into the passenger seat, buckled his belt, as Daniel hung a hard right, then a left, then another right.

Daniel didn’t let up on the gas, driving them deeper into the surrounding ghetto, no destination, just putting distance between them and what they’d left behind.

“Nobody’s following,” he said.

“Well, that’s something,” said Trinity. “Hang a right, there’s a police station up on Magnolia.”

“Not going to the cops.”

“Why not?”

“Samson was coordinating security with the cops, and that was Samson who just shot at us.”

“What?”

“It was Samson just tried to kill us.”