The Trinity Game (44 page)

She nodded to Trinity and said, “We’re on after this break,” and shuffled through her index cards again, rearranging them, trying to clear her mind.

Just another interview,
she told herself,
no big deal…

Shooter said, “Quiet, everybody. We’re on in ten…” He held one hand up high.

Through her earpiece, Julia listened to Anderson Cooper intro the segment. Cooper was saying, “Forget about Waldo, the
question the entire world has been asking since Sunday is
Where is Reverend Tim Trinity?
Well, Julia Rothman of the
New Orleans Time-Picayune
found him, and he agreed to sit down with her for this live interview, exclusively on CNN. I, for one, can’t wait to hear what he has to say. Take it away, Julia.”

OK, here we go…

Shooter brought his hand down and pointed at her.

“Thanks, Anderson,” she said, looking into the camera’s shiny black eye, thinking:
No big deal, just another interview...
“We’re in a motel in the New Orleans area with, as you say, the man
everyone
has been looking for.” She turned to Trinity. “Reverend Trinity, thank you for being with us tonight.”

“My pleasure, Julia,” said Trinity. “Thanks for having me.”

She’d already memorized her first five questions, didn’t even need to glance at the index card. She said, “Please tell us—”

“Excuse me.” Trinity held up a hand. “Pardon me for interrupting. I’d like to make a statement.” He turned to face the camera. “On Thursday afternoon at one o’clock, I will be in front of Saint Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. At that time, I will share with the world what I’ve just recently come to understand. I hope you’ll all join me. Thank you.” Trinity smiled at Julia and said, “Thanks again for having me.” He stood up, took the microphone off, and walked out the door. A second later, Pat followed after him.

Julia glanced at Daniel as he shrugged a bewildered apology.

She turned back to the camera, her cheeks burning.

W
ithin an hour of the broadcast, Trinity’s Pilgrims were gathering in Jackson Square. Within two hours they were crowding out the tourists and pissing off the merchants.

According to news reports, the pilgrims had left a wake of destruction in Atlanta, and nobody wanted a repeat performance in New Orleans. At midnight the mayor gave the order, and the NOPD sent cops in on foot and on horseback to disperse the crowd with as much force as necessary. Which they did. A few hippies bloodied, a couple of bikers pepper-sprayed, but no serious injuries.

The crowd pulled back to the tent city that was now filling Louis Armstrong Park, and to Lafayette Square and Lee Circle, which were soon teeming.

At nine o’clock the next morning, twenty-eight hours before Trinity was scheduled to give his speech, the mayor made a statement to the press: Reverend Tim Trinity did not have an event permit and would not be allowed to hold a rally in or near the Vieux Carré. If Reverend Trinity wished to apply for a permit, he was free to do so, but it would not be approved by the following day, and there was no guarantee it would be approved at all. The NOPD and the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office were putting all available officers on double shifts until further notice.

This did not go down well with Trinity’s Pilgrims, and the scene in the parks was starting to look more like protest than pilgrimage.

Still they kept coming. By late morning Audubon Park was starting to fill up. At noon, the mayor’s office announced that a press conference would be held at three p.m.

The press conference took place at four. This time the mayor was joined by the city police commissioner, parish sheriff, the governor, and United States Senator Paul Guyot. Senator Guyot spoke for the group while the mayor stood in the background looking like he’d swallowed a handful of nails.

Senator Guyot said he was delighted to announce that an agreement had been reached between federal, state, and local governments, allowing Reverend Trinity to hold his rally the following day as originally planned. The front steps of Saint Louis Cathedral were private property, but a stage would be set up on the public sidewalk directly in front for Trinity’s use. The Louisiana National Guard was being mobilized to assist local and state authorities with crowd management. He said Reverend Trinity’s First Amendment rights were not negated by the fact that so many Americans wanted to hear him in person, and that the government’s goal was neither to restrict Trinity’s right to free speech nor the right of Americans to peacefully assemble, but simply to do everything possible to ensure public safety.

“Uh-oh,” said Pat, looking over Daniel’s shoulder at the entrance of Vaughan’s Lounge. “We got trouble.”

Daniel turned away from the television and toward the open doorway in time to see two athletic men in blue suits and short haircuts close the doors of an unmarked gray sedan. The men peered into the darkened bar.

“They ain’t local yokels, neither,” Pat added, laying his hands on the table, open and relaxed. “These cats are the real deal. We don’t wanna put them on edge, man. Keep your hands visible.”

Daniel lifted the hand that had fallen in his lap, now hyper-aware of the gun on his hip, for which he most certainly did not have a concealed carry permit.

The taller man wore an expensive suit cut to help conceal his sidearm. The other man apparently didn’t give a shit if anyone knew he was carrying. The taller man made eye contact and nodded as they reached the table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Byrne.” He pulled out the chair next to Daniel and flashed his badge as he sat. “We’re from the FBI, I’m Special Agent Hillborn, and,” he gestured at the other man, “this is Special Agent Robertson. Perhaps your friend Ms. Rothman mentioned that we were eager to speak with you.” A smile, neither friendly nor menacing. Strictly professional. Hillborn turned to Pat. “And you are?”

“Pat Wahlquist. I’m an executive protection specialist, under the employ of Mr. Byrne. If you’d like to see my papers, I’ll have to reach into my back pocket.”

Hillborn waved it off. “I believe you.” Back to Daniel. “We’re investigating the bombing at your uncle’s church in Atlanta.” He signaled to the bartender, “Two Abitas here, and whatever these men are drinking.” Back to Daniel. “Funny thing, Ms. Rothman neglected to tell us that Trinity is your uncle. Must’ve slipped her mind. But I spoke at length with a representative of the Vatican who was very helpful. He said that you seem to have walked off the job, said you are no longer operating under the direction or authority of the Holy See.”

“That’s correct,” said Daniel.

The bartender deposited their drinks on the table and Hillborn dropped a twenty on the bartender’s tray and waved him away. He took a swig of beer. “You understand, then, that you no longer have diplomatic immunity.”

“I’m an American citizen in the process of moving back to my hometown.” The gun was growing itchy against his side. “I’m not involved in criminal activity. I have no need for immunity, diplomatic or otherwise.”

“If you’re keeping us from meeting with Reverend Trinity—”

“I’m not,” said Daniel. “The whole world knows where he’s going to be.” He gestured at the television over the bar, “And he’ll be happy to meet with you after his public address tomorrow.”

“Mr. Byrne. The bombing at your uncle’s church was a very professional operation, and the people behind it are not lacking in resources. Do you really think, after going to all that effort, they’ll just shrug their shoulders and forget all about it?”

Images from the bayou flashed in Daniel’s mind…The man lighting a cigarette by the Suburban in front of Pat’s house, the other man jerking against the window bars as electricity fried his body, the fine mist of blood that hung in the air where Samson Turner’s head had been a second earlier…

Hillborn turned to Pat. “Let’s hear your opinion, Mr. Wahlquist. As an
executive protection specialist
, I mean. How do you estimate your chances of keeping Reverend Trinity alive tomorrow?”

“Our chances? I honestly don’t like them a whole bunch,” said Pat. He sipped his root beer and looked straight at Daniel.

“Hire a professional, you should take his advice,” said Hillborn. He took another swig of Abita. “Look, Daniel, I’m sure you’re trying to do what you think is best, but your good intentions are going to get your uncle killed. You too, in all likelihood. You’re a smart
guy, you must be able to see the truth of that.
Twenty
professional bodyguards couldn’t keep him alive at a public rally. Face it: you can’t protect him. We can.”

Daniel couldn’t think of anything to say, so he took a long pull from his bottle and waited for the pitch he knew was coming.

It came. “You can still save your uncle,” said Hillborn, “by convincing him to turn himself over to us. We’re offering a way out.”

“And what happens to him?” said Daniel.

“Well, after we debrief him, he’ll get a new name, a new identity. The US Marshals will protect him, set him up in a new location. We’ll let him keep enough of his fraudulently earned wealth that he’ll be able to live out the rest of his life in the lap of luxury. Best of everything. Of course he’ll never preach again, never get anywhere near a television camera, he’ll have to stay completely under radar.” Hillborn smiled. “But he will get to live.”

Daniel shook his head. “He won’t take that deal. See, the thing you guys don’t understand…he’s not running a con. I know, I know,” he held up a hand, “I felt the same way not so long ago. But he sincerely believes that God is using him to bring something important into the world, and for what it’s worth, I’ve also come to believe it. Regardless, he fully understands the risks and he’d rather die than turn his back on his obligation to see it through. I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to wait and talk to him after the speech.”

“If he’s still alive.”

“Yes.”

Hillborn and Robertson exchanged a look.

Agent Robertson fixed Daniel with a piercing stare and said, “Special Agent Hillborn has shown you the carrot. I’ll show you the stick: Tim Trinity was involved in the deadly bombing of an oil refinery and the rigging of the Georgia State Lottery, and that’s
just in the last week. We will prosecute him in federal court and he will spend the rest of his life in a Supermax prison in the middle of Bumfuck, Minnesota, where he will be confined to an eight-by-eight windowless cell, all alone, twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day, every day, for the rest of his life.”

“He had no part in the refinery accident, or the lottery. None. He’ll beat it in court.”

“Don’t be dense,” snapped Robertson. “Trinity stood in front of the cameras in Arkansas and freely admitted to being a con artist for the last forty years. He’s been running a massive fraud scheme to the tune of millions. He will be convicted of multiple felonies, and he
will
go to prison. We’ll see to it. And he will never come out again. Ever. That’s the stick. If I were you, I’d take the carrot.”

“In case you haven’t been watching the news,” said Agent Hillborn, “Atlanta is in tatters. At last count, 167 dead bodies in the parks and on the streets, well over a thousand assaults, 323 rapes and God knows how many more unreported, property damage in the tens of millions. So far. Next year’s budget for schools and homeless shelters, wiped out. And you think God wants Tim Trinity to bring all that to New Orleans?” He shook his head. “Hasn’t this place seen enough tragedy? Bottom line: your uncle is a walking public disturbance, and we are not having it any longer.”

“Senator Guyot said—”

“Senator Guyot wants to be president, he can say whatever he likes. I’m telling you: Tim Trinity will not be making any more public speeches, tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year.” He put a business card on the table. “I could arrest you right now, Daniel, but that wouldn’t save your uncle, and more importantly, it wouldn’t save New Orleans.” He drank the last of his beer.
“Think about what we’ve said, and take our offer to him.” He stood up. “If we don’t hear from you by midnight, the carrot goes away and all he gets is the stick.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes after the FBI agents left. Finally Pat said, “I’d bet dollars to donuts there’s now a GPS tracker on our car, courtesy of our new friends from the Justice Department. I’ll drop you at a bus stop, dump the car in a lot somewhere, and we’ll meet back at the ranch later.”