The Trinity Game (47 page)

Daniel woke by the light of morning, on the fold-out couch in the office, limbs intertwined with Julia. He kissed the top of her head and smelled her hair, and she purred against his chest.

“Mmm, what time is it?”

He looked at his watch. “Eight thirty.”

“Oh my God.” She jumped naked out of bed and scrambled around the room, collecting scattered articles of clothing and putting them on. “I gotta run.” She paused at his side, leaned in for a quick kiss. “Don’t take it the wrong way, that was wonderful, really. I’m late for work.”

Daniel stood and got into his pants. “So, just to be clear: while we’re starting anew and taking it slow and going on dates and then more dates if we like the first dates,” he gestured at the bed, “we still get to do that again, right?”

Julia looked up from fastening her bra. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

They grinned at each other for a second. “Good,” he said. He put on his shirt.

“But maybe next time we’ll try some place that doesn’t smell like liniment and sweat socks,” she said.

She finished dressing, and he walked her out through the gym and down to the front door.

“See you later,” she said.

“I’m counting on it.” A quick kiss, and he unlocked the door, and she stepped out into the bright sunlight.

He watched her walk away until she turned the corner.

A tall blond priest walked by him and into the gym, saying, “Hello, Daniel,” as he passed.

Oh shit. Conrad…

Daniel ran in after him.

C
onrad wrinkled his nose and made a face. “My God, Daniel. You still reek of the woman.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re a priest,” said Conrad.

“Not anymore. Didn’t Nick tell you?”

“There’s a protocol to be followed. You can’t just walk away from it.”

“Yeah, well, I did.” Daniel crossed the gym to the fridge, opened an energy drink. “You guys go on and hold a trial in absentia, find me guilty, declare me the spawn of Satan, do whatever you’re gonna do. I’m out, and I’m not coming back.”

“And what? You’re going to live happily ever after with Jezebel?”

“Fuck you, Conrad.”

Conrad Winter let out a melodramatic sigh. “Father Nick is sick over this, you know. I tell you, the old man is heartbroken.”

“Tell him I’m sorry,” said Daniel. He meant it.

“He actually got Cardinal Allodi to sign on to a full pardon for you, if you come back in contrition.”

“Tell him thanks but no thanks.” Daniel sipped his energy drink. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll see you out.”

Conrad nodded, like he’d expected the rejection and couldn’t be bothered to argue the point. Daniel walked him back through
the gym. Along the way, Conrad said, “You don’t want to be a priest anymore, you want to break your vows, that’s between you and God. And I understand Trinity’s your uncle, but for the sake of everything holy, pause to think about what you’re doing by helping him. Think about the consequences. He could be the
Antichrist
for all you know.”

“Spare me.” Daniel walked him down the stairs to the door.

“If you let him make the speech today,” said Conrad, “you will only buy yourself a world of heartache. Fair warning, Daniel.”

“Fine,” Daniel unlocked the door, “fair warning.” He gestured to the street. “Have a nice life.”

Walking back to his car, Conrad dialed the number he’d just recently added to his cell phone and waited for his lost sheep to answer.

They’d been working on the young man for three days straight. Three days straight, in a windowless room with bright lights shining around the clock; sleep limited to one hour in every twenty-four; sustenance limited to high-fat, high-carb, low-nutrition, low-fiber fast food garbage and high-sugar sodas, wreaking havoc with the body’s insulin levels; choral music playing the entire time, without interruption; a crucifix on every wall, and a near-constant stream of religious talk from a priest in a clerical collar.

It was a remarkably simple thing to push an already lost sheep deeper into the dark woods and over the edge of insanity. It just took the will to do it.

The young man answered the phone, finally.

“It’s Father Carmine calling,” said Conrad. “Yes, the Lord’s shepherd, that’s right. Do you remember what we discussed last night?”

He unlocked the car and got in.

“It has now become necessary, my son. The Lord needs your help.”

He closed the door, stuck the key in the ignition.

“You know, in a way I envy you. You’re a very privileged young man, very special. Of all His children, the Lord has chosen you. Everyone needs God, but it is the rare soul who is needed
by
Him.”

He started the ignition.

“That’s right, this afternoon. You remember where? Apartment 301, key under the mat. Everything you need is waiting there. Just like we talked about. Remember, it must be at one thirty, not before.”

He pulled away from the curb.

“You are truly blessed, my son. You have God’s grace upon you, and your reward will be great in heaven.”

He broke the connection and tossed the phone on the empty passenger seat, thinking:
ALEA IACTA EST.

The die is cast.

D
aniel sat in the passenger seat, staring at the photo of Lucien Drapeau he’d taped to the dashboard, committing every detail to memory, visualizing what that face would look like from different angles. He tried to listen as Trinity made small talk from behind and Pat bantered back from behind the wheel. He caught enough of it to toss a line in now and then and help keep the mood light for his uncle, but it was a struggle.

Last night, with Julia, he’d seen the full promise of his future self. There was a life ahead, a life to be lived in the world, outside the authority of the Church, a relationship with God more directly felt, if less clearly defined. The life of a free man, and all the uncertainty and responsibility that comes with it.

He wanted that life. He wanted the chance to discover what kind of man he could be in that new world.

He’d found it all, just in time to risk it all.

There was a crowd gathered under the blazing sun, on the boulevard’s neutral ground directly in front of the Ninth Ward Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church. About 120 people in all, young and old, drunk and sober, some in their Sunday best, some
in dirty jeans and threadbare shirts, others dressed like they’d just dropped in from a voodoo ceremony.

Daniel looked out at the crowd as Pat pulled to a stop at the curb and threw it in park. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but it was enough to start.

Most impressive of all were the costumed Mardi Gras Indians—a riot of color, a blur of green and yellow and red and blue, pink and purple, glittering sequins and shiny beads—dancing and spinning through the crowd, making the children laugh, with huge feathered headdresses waving in the humid breeze.

Tim Trinity hopped out of the back seat and Priestess Ory welcomed him with a hug and led him toward the crowd.

Pat pulled the keys from the ignition. “Last chance to back out of this cockamamie plan.”

Daniel watched the scene through the windshield. His uncle was dancing with a Mardi Gras Indian chief, making faces at two small boys who convulsed with laughter at the sight. “Don’t want to,” he said.

“OK.” Pat grabbed his backpack and handed Daniel a walkie-talkie wired to an earpiece. He pointed at a button on the top. “Push to talk, flip the switch to lock it in talk mode if you need both hands.” Daniel clipped the unit to his belt on the opposite side of his gun and inserted the earpiece. Pat pressed the button on his own walkie-talkie. “Read me?”

Daniel nodded. “Very loud.”

“Good.” Pat pointed at the photo taped to the dashboard. “Take a minute,” he said. “Tim’s life depends on you being able to recognize this asshole.”

Daniel had been staring at it the whole way from Saint Sebastian’s. That’s why he’d asked Pat to do the driving. But he
took another minute now to examine the face of the man who’d come in from Montreal to murder his uncle.

He nodded to himself, snatched the photo off the dashboard, stuck it in his pocket, and put his sunglasses on.

Pat donned his own sunglasses, then pulled a lime-green plastic bowler hat from his backpack and put it on his head. He said, “Tell me true now, does my butt look big in this?”

Daniel couldn’t help but smile. “Not at all,” he said, “very slimming.”

“It’ll help you spot me in the crowd, brother.” Pat opened the car door. “Let’s go do this.”

Reverend Tim Trinity and Mambo Angelica Ory started walking together, and the people walked with them, down Caffin Avenue, passing one- and two-story homes, some mid-renovation with camping trailers parked in their driveways or on their lawns, others still boarded up, still bearing the spray-painted symbols left behind by soldiers after the flood waters receded, the number at the bottom of each symbol indicating how many bodies were found inside.

Veves
of the damned.

But other homes told a better story, one of endurance and rebirth, of stubborn faith in the possibility that tomorrow can be made better than today. Those houses stood up straight and their windows sparkled and they wore new coats of paint and pride.