The Trinity Game (30 page)

Daniel jimmied a window open and climbed through, unlocked the front door and let Trinity in. The hunting cabin was nicer than he’d expected. Probably owned by an executive who liked the idea of
roughing it
but saw no reason to experience discomfort while doing so.

Trinity found canned soup and beef jerky in the cupboard, enough to keep them until morning. At sunset Daniel covered the windows with blankets and lit an oil lamp he found under the sink, and they ate soup out of the can and listened to the news on a wind-up radio.

Twelve dead at Trinity’s church. Six killed by the explosion, another six trampled to death in the stampede from the building. Over two dozen injured.

“I told you I had a feeling something bad was gonna happen,” said Trinity.

“This would qualify,” said Daniel.

The radio told them that Reverend Tim Trinity was missing and was thought to have died in the explosion, but this was as yet unconfirmed. The Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Office directed questions to the FBI, and the FBI wasn’t releasing a statement until the forensic investigation was complete and next-of-kin had been notified.

Trinity put his soup can on the coffee table, reached out his right hand. “Gimme the phone.”

“What?”

“I gotta call Liz, let her know I’m OK.”

“Tim, Liz was still standing in your dressing room when I dragged you out.” Trinity didn’t withdraw his hand. Daniel shook his head. “I said no. The world thinks you’re dead, and you’re gonna stay dead until it benefits us to resurrect you. If they know you’re alive, they’ll come at you again. We need time to figure our next move.”

Trinity’s arm dropped slowly to his side, and his eyes became wet in the flickering orange light. He blinked rapidly, let out a long breath.

“You and Liz were close.”

“Sorta off and on, but…yeah. We were close.”

“I’m sorry.”

Trinity pulled a steel flask from his pocket, screwed off the cap, and raised it toward the ceiling in a toasting gesture. “Glory
and survival, Liz. Hell of a broad.” He took a swig, closed his eyes for a moment, nodded to himself. “OK. We go to New Orleans.”

“First place they’ll look for you,” Daniel said. “People in trouble usually run home.”

Trinity pointed at him. “I’m dead, remember? They won’t be looking. Your words.”

“A couple days at most. And that’s where they’ll start.”

“Then we haul ass, in-and-out before they find out. See, I know where the answer is…” Trinity held up a hand. “Last night, I had a dream. More powerful than a dream, it felt like a vision. It felt like God talking. In the dream, God came in the form of a beautiful black woman. The woman said I was in danger. She also said she could help me. And when I woke up, I knew where to find her. She’s in New Orleans.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know. But she’s in the French Quarter. I know her address—633 Dumaine, just off Royal.”

“You just woke up with her address in your head.”

Trinity nodded. “I woke up, and in my head, I could
see
the building—white, one story, green shutters, slate roof. I could see the numbers by the door, and I knew exactly where it was. We go there, we’ll find her. I’m sure of it.” He took another pull from the flask. “If you wanna bail out, I understand. You never signed up for dodging shrapnel. I can drop you off wherever you like…but I’m going to New Orleans.”

“This dream, it was like the dream where God told you he wanted me by your right hand?”

Trinity let out a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, I was lying when I told you that. I just made it up so you’d stay.”

“What?”

“That was
before
I promised not to lie to you. I haven’t lied since, and I’m not lying now.”

God, he was like a child sometimes. “Speaking of promises,” said Daniel, “what happened to telling the world you’re not the Messiah?”

“I tried. Honest—you saw me—the words wouldn’t come out. So then I did exactly what I told you I’d do: I opened my mouth and trusted the Lord to feed me my lines.” Trinity took a swig from his flask. “And you know what? I think he did.” He winked. “Just wish he’d given me a little more material. Man, I felt like an ass up there.”

Daniel smiled despite himself. He kicked off his shoes. “I’ll go with you to New Orleans,” he said.

“Thanks.” Trinity held the flask out. “Care for a snort?”

Daniel took the flask, smooth and warm in his hand, and swallowed some bourbon. It went down with a welcome burn. The engraving on the flask caught his eye, and he angled it toward the oil lamp.

To Pops—Happy 41
^st
Birthday—Love Danny

He looked up and his uncle nodded.

“You broke my heart, son.”

Daniel took another swig, handed the flask back. “Right back at ya, old man.” He lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. “Better get some shut-eye. We hit the road early.”

Outside, rain started drumming hard para-para-diddles on the cabin’s tin roof, and thunder cracked in the distance. Tim Trinity was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “Thanks for saving my life today.”

“Go to sleep, Tim.”

N
ow I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

“Sweet dreams, kid.”

E
arly morning mist rose through the Georgia pines like the souls of the dead ascending from their graves on Judgment Day. The lonely jackhammer knock of a woodpecker echoed somewhere in the distance. Daniel and Trinity rolled slowly along the muddy road, windows down, Daniel scanning cabins on the left, Trinity the right.

“Thought we s’posed to be hauling ass,” said Trinity.

“Keep your eyes peeled, I can only watch one si—hold on…right there, perfect.” Daniel turned into a driveway and stopped behind a battered, once-green GMC Sierra with about twenty years on it. The cabin had no electricity, much less a satellite dish. To the right of the cabin, a pile of freshly cut firewood and an axe sticking out of a tree stump. Tall rose bushes bloomed fiery red against the cabin’s wall, and a massive Cracker in faded denim overalls stood cutting back excess leaves with a twelve-inch Bowie knife. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He turned and stared at them. He didn’t smile.

Trinity said, “From where I sit, this is about as far from ‘perfect’ as we are from Seattle. I say we back the hell outta here.”

“Stay in the truck.” Daniel got out slowly, closed the door. To the man with the knife, he said, “Good morning—”

The man let out a humorless snort. “
Was
good, until you showed up. Round here, folks get gutted for trespassing.”

“Sorry, I, uh, didn’t see a sign posted.”

“’Round here, don’t need a sign.” He gestured to the road with his knife. “You girls best be on your way.”

Daniel raised his left hand and reached for the door handle with his right. “No problem, understood.” He opened the door of Trinity’s truck. “Before we go, can I interest you in swapping trucks?”

“Huh?”

“Straight swap, our truck for yours.”

“What am I gonna do with a pretty toy like that? I look black to you?”

“Your Sierra’s worth—what?—maybe five, six hundred bucks? But fresh tires, so I figure you’ve kept it running OK.”

The big man stepped forward, holding the knife at chest level. “So?”

“Our truck’s practically new, decked out with all the options, worth fifteen or twenty times as much. Call it a pretty toy, but it’s also a pretty valuable toy. You can sell it, buy a good solid truck with plenty years left in it, and pocket some serious cash in the process.”

“Can’t sell it if it’s hot.”

Daniel held the man’s eyes. “It’s not.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?” The man shook his head and snorted. “Big City faggots always thinkin’ we just a bunch a gullible morons up here.”

The blade rose, its sharp tip now pointing directly at Daniel’s chin. Electricity hummed through his nerves, his fingertips tingling. In an instant, his right foot slid back into position, weight shifted to the balls of his feet, and his core muscled contracted.

“Keep waving that blade around, Clyde, and I’m gonna get the sudden urge to defend myself. Which would look a lot like
me breaking your wrist, dislocating your knee, and shoving that pretty knife up your ass.”

It stopped the man cold. The blade came down a few inches and he stood with his mouth half open, probably trying to decide which of two possibilities was more likely to be true. Either Daniel was insane, or…

“Don’t make me prove it,” said Daniel. “And you’re the one making assumptions: talking about big city faggots, when I never said shit about mutant inbred hillbillies.” Then, softening his tone, “Now I came in peace to make you an offer, and the offer still stands. The Caddy’s not stolen, but for the sake of argument, you could strip it and sell it a piece at a time. The catalytic converter alone would buy two of your trucks. So you wanna make a trade, or what?”

The man sucked air through his front teeth, and the hand with the knife dropped down by his side. He walked slowly to the back of Trinity’s Escalade and pointed at the tailgate with the tip of the knife and said, “C’mere.”

Daniel walked back, stood beside the man, and looked at the bullet holes put there by Samson Turner. One in the bumper, four in the tailgate, and one more, higher, on the pillar to the left of the rear window. Three inches to the right, and it would’ve exploded through the back of Daniel’s head.
Three inches.
The thought turned his groin to ice.

The man said, “Who’s chasin’?”

Daniel shrugged. “Wish I knew. But we can’t hang around, so the offer expires in ten seconds. Yes or no?”

The windshield was stained nicotine yellow and the cab smelled like cigarette smoke and body odor in equal measure, but at least the redneck had taken care with maintenance. Daniel checked the oil as he topped up the gas and found it clean, recently changed. Brake and transmission fluids both fine, tire pressure bang-on. It would get them to New Orleans and beyond. And an old pickup on these roads was like a yellow cab on the streets of Manhattan or a Vespa in Rome. It would help them disappear into the background noise of the place.

A couple miles down the road, Trinity said, “Way you talked to that boy…” He let out a whistle.

“We needed the truck.”

“Gotta call bullshit on that, Danny. That was about way more than a truck. I mean, how badly you itchin’ to die, exactly?”

Daniel looked squarely at his uncle. “Don’t think I’m itching to die, not really. But I do like to keep death within spitting distance. Helps me stay sharp.”

“Probably not healthy.”

“Coming from you,” Daniel smiled, “that should probably worry the hell out of me.”