The Trinity Game (35 page)

The biker took two steps forward and swung with his right, and the kid’s nose popped, splatter-painting his chest crimson.

“Don’t you fuckin’ bleed on me!” bellowed the biker as the kid dropped to the ground. He cocked his arm again, but froze in place. After a few tense seconds, he shook his head, lowered the arm, and started opening and closing his hands repeatedly. “I warned you.” He stormed away, disappearing into the crowd. Nobody tried to stop him.

The kid lay on the grass in the fetal position, hands to his nose, blood running through his fingers, gulping air through his mouth, sobs wracking his entire body. A hippie cowboy who looked like Kris Kristofferson and the teenage hooker rushed to his aid.

Andrew continued walking through the wreckage of the tent city. Probably a quarter of the crowd had already deserted, and it looked like another quarter was making moves to pack up.

This can’t possibly be God’s plan…

He saw a guy he knew slightly, coming his way. They’d met two days ago, standing in line for a port-a-potty. The lines were over an hour long, and the guy was a talker. But now Andrew couldn’t recall anything he’d said.
What was the guy’s name?

“Andrew,” the guy said. “Dandelion, remember?”

“Right, yes, of course.” Now he remembered. Dandelion was from Canada. His mother was full-blood Mohawk, his father a Jewish radical, some kind of environmental activist. Dandelion grew up in a place called Hamilton, which he said was like Canada’s Pittsburgh. Spent summers with his grandma on an Indian reservation. He’d shown Andrew some kind of First Nations ID card and said he didn’t have to pay taxes on cigarettes back home because he was an Indian.

“New Orleans,” said Dandelion. “Everybody says that’s where he’s going.”

Andrew nodded.

“I hooked up with some cool guys, we’re heading straight there.”

“You still believe in him, Dandelion?”

“Never did. But I didn’t
not
believe in him either.” Dandelion laughed. “Either way, something heavy is goin’ down. Some mega-seismic cultural shift, ya know? History is being written, dude, and I want a front row seat.” He hitched his backpack up a little higher on his shoulders. “Hey, you OK? You look a little out of it.”

“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…

J
ulia 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.

D
aniel 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 WAHLQUIST

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.