The Trinity Game (49 page)

Let the rock stars have their Cristal, Lamech thought as he brought the television’s volume back up. When the second-best is truly excellent, the key factor to consider becomes best
value
. The Cristal was superlative, but to his mind, the 1990 Bollinger was plenty excellent, for a lot less money. That’s why so many rock stars ended up broke, while he had built a legacy that would make his progeny comfortable for generations to come.

It’s a funny old world; if you live long enough, you’ll see things you could never have imagined. He remembered that sunny day three weeks ago, when he first brought the news of Tim Trinity’s predictions to his colleagues and had to convince them that it wasn’t a joke. If you’d told him then that it would cost five million dollars to end Trinity’s life, he’d have laughed you right out of Nevada. And if you’d told him that, in just three weeks, “Reverend
Tim” would lead a march of over ten thousand people through the streets of New Orleans, carried on live television around the globe, he’d have thought you completely insane.

A lot can change in three weeks, and by God, had it ever.

And considering what Trinity had become in that brief time, five million dollars was very good value indeed. There are times when the second-best just isn’t good enough.

He shifted his gaze from the television across the room to the laptop computer open on the coffee table in front of him. What a beautiful example of cause and effect in its purest form: Trinity dies on the television screen, and I press a button on the computer. I press a button on the computer, and money moves from a bank account in the Bahamas to a bank account in Switzerland.

William Lamech had no doubt it would be accomplished. He just hoped Lucien Drapeau wouldn’t pull the trigger until the champagne arrived.

“T
his is impossible,” said Daniel, bulling his way between a couple of stoned surfer dudes, pushing through the crush of the mob.

His earpiece crackled and Pat said, “Roger that. Move closer to Tim and look for my hat. Can’t see you, but I’m guessing I’m somewhere around your two o’clock.”

Daniel got around a woman pushing a stroller, worked his way forward, looking slightly to his right. It was wall-to-wall people, the entire width of Esplanade, covering sidewalks, roadway, and neutral ground.

And here, on the edge of the French Quarter, the crowd had to navigate around the huge old oaks in the center of the road and the thinner trees planted at regular intervals along the sidewalks. The oaks provided a much-needed umbrella for shade—many in the crowd were verging on sunstroke as they arrived—but the same umbrella of branches and leaves also blocked Daniel’s view of the second-floor balconies, packed with people, many leaning out over the wrought iron railings to cheer the parade on and shower the revelers with colorful plastic beads.

Lucien Drapeau could lob a grenade down from above and there’d be nothing anyone could do. But that didn’t sound like the kind of precision Pat had talked about. Daniel hoped Pat was right.

He spotted the plastic green bowler and worked his way through the chaos up to Pat, walking a dozen feet ahead of Trinity, who had several men from Priestess Ory’s congregation and the angry man with the dreadlocks walking in formation, forming a protective box around him.

Pat put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and spoke directly into his ear as they walked. “Need to change tactics. Drapeau wouldn’t try to get up close in this crowd. He’s a professional, not a kamikaze.” He gestured toward the men surrounding Trinity and Ory. “We gonna have to take the chance that these guys will protect him from any crazies and focus on where Drapeau is most likely to be.”

Daniel nodded. “Fine. You said Drapeau was a sniper.” He started walking faster.

“Used to be.”

“What’s the range? How far are we talking about?” Daniel broke into a jog, leaving the parade behind, and Pat stayed with him.

“He could make the shot from twelve, fifteen-hundred meters, maybe more.”

“We gotta get out from under the trees.” Daniel pointed at the sidewalk on the uptown side. “You take the buildings on that side.” He jogged over to the sidewalk on the left and continued toward the end of the road, toward the Mississippi River.

The sidewalk was still crowded with spectators, but not packed the way it was in the midst of the parade, and Daniel could maintain a quick walk, weaving around people, keeping his eyes up, scanning the balconies as best he could.

He pressed the talk button. “Got nothing here, almost at the last block—”

His gaze stopped on the profile of a man, about six-four, wearing running shoes, jogging shorts, and a red mesh muscle shirt,
terrycloth wristbands and headband. Bald head. He quickened his pace, lost sight of the jogger, pushed his way around a fat man and through a group of college kids…and found the jogger again, a little farther down the street.

Daniel broke into a fast walk. “Pat, I think I see Drapeau. Head my way.” Closer now, he could see the man’s head had that distinctive bullet shape and his ears were small. The man turned his way. No eyebrows.

They locked eyes. Lucien Drapeau’s expression remained dispassionate, not even a twitch of emotion, but Daniel could see the spark of recognition, and then something in Drapeau’s eyes went out, like a switch had been flipped in his head, and he took off at a dead run.

Daniel took off after him. His earpiece came alive and Pat said, “I see him! Hauling ass down Barry Street, away from the Quarter, red tank top!”

“I know,” yelled Daniel, not bothering with the radio. They converged at Barry Street and got past the spectators and ran flat out, down the center of the street.

Drapeau’s lead was just half a block, but he darted right, disappearing from view, into the courtyard of the Melrose Housing Project.

Two rectangular redbrick apartment buildings, each four stories tall, faced each other across the courtyard, and a third formed a back wall to the compound. The buildings had never reopened after Katrina and were awaiting demolition. The government had installed metal shutters over all the ground-floor windows and padlocked the doors.

In the center of the courtyard, four old men sat on crates, listening to a portable radio and passing a bottle in a paper bag.
One of the old men turned his bleary gaze toward Daniel and, without saying a word, pointed his finger at the building at the back of the lot.

Daniel and Pat tore into the courtyard, drawing their guns.

Daniel nodded his thanks as they ran past the men, and he caught a newscaster’s voice from the portable radio: “…It’s very slow going, but Reverend Tim Trinity has now entered the French Quarter, and police are clearing a path along Rue Chartres for him…”

He’s gonna make it...

Daniel surged even faster, cutting around the corner of the building. Drapeau was dead ahead, running straight at the apartment building, with nowhere to go. Daniel could hear Pat just behind him and to his right. He angled to his left, Pat to the right, boxing Drapeau in. But Drapeau ran right up the front steps, opened the door, and disappeared into the building.

As they came together at the door, Pat picked up the padlock from the ground. It had been cut through with a hacksaw.

“He set it up ahead of time,” said Daniel.
“He could have a rifle waiting on the roof.”

Pat put out an arm to stop him. “Take a breath. We go quickly but carefully. He knows the layout, we don’t.” He lifted his arm. “Sunglasses off.”

They entered the darkened hallway with their guns out, keeping their footfalls quiet as they went. The hallway was dank, and Daniel’s nostrils filled with the smell of mold and rot. They paused just long enough for their eyes to adjust, then moved forward.

The hallway had a staircase at either end. Pat pointed one way, then went the other. Daniel took the stairs two at a time, stopping on the landing to listen. He heard the echo of distant footfalls—Pat on the other stairwell. Then nothing.

He ran up the next flight of stairs, entered the second-floor hallway, listened. Footfalls, directly above. He turned back toward the stairwell, pushing the talk button. “Third floor,” he said.

“Already there,” said Pat’s voice in his ear.

But as Daniel ran up the stairs, he heard a mighty crash and splintering of wood and scuffling in his earpiece, the smack of a fist against skin, and more grappling. He ran faster, pounding up the stairs.

Then a single gunshot—
bam!
—and a heavy thud. Pat yelled, “Fuck!” in Daniel’s ear. Daniel flew up the remaining stairs, reached the third floor, and found Pat down in the hallway.

“Goddamnit,” said Pat, pulling his belt from his pants. There was a hole in his upper thigh and the blood was coming fast. “Motherfucker had a pistol stashed behind the radiator.”

Daniel knelt down, “Let me help—”

“I got this,” Pat snapped as he struggled to tie the belt around his leg. He gave a sharp nod toward the roof. “Go.” Daniel didn’t move. Pat said, “Go. I’ll take care of me.”

Daniel tore up the next two flights, gun in hand. At the top of the stairs was a landing and a metal door leading out to the roof. It was open a crack. Drapeau was probably on the other side, aiming at the door. Or maybe he was at the edge of the roof, aiming at Trinity.

Time to find out which.

Daniel took a few steps back on the landing. He got a running start and launched himself into the air, crashing the door open with his shoulder.

A burst of gunfire—four rounds—ricocheted off metal and brick as Daniel flew through the air, tucked and rolled onto the rooftop, cutting his elbows on the gravel, rolling to a stop behind a rust-colored exhaust vent.

Another shot. The bullet from Drapeau’s gun careened off the vent.

Daniel peeked around and returned fire twice—and pulled back just as fast as Drapeau unloaded another round off the vent.

He took a deep breath, and took stock. He wasn’t hit, yet. The quick glimpse he’d gotten told him Drapeau had superior cover, behind the elevator maintenance shed.

He flattened out on the hot gravel and chanced another peek around the vent.

Nothing. Just the maintenance shed and empty rooftop. No Drapeau. And behind the shed was the edge of the building facing the French Quarter, facing Jackson Square, seven blocks away.

About one thousand meters.

Fuck.
Drapeau might be setting up the rifle to shoot Trinity right now, or he might be standing with his pistol up waiting to shoot Daniel as soon as he came around the corner of the shed.

No way to know.

Daniel got up into a crouch, moved to the edge of the building, and looked to his left. Just past the maintenance shed, around the corner of the building, a metal pole extended straight out, horizontally from the roof. A flagpole or a lightning rod, probably brought down by Katrina’s winds. If he could get to the corner of the building and around, he could grab that pole and haul himself back up on Drapeau’s blind side. That is, if there was a ledge to stand on, and if the pole didn’t break.

Two big
ifs
. He scanned the rooftop for other options. There were none.

He leaned out over the parapet and looked down. It was a dead drop eighty feet straight down to the concrete sidewalk below.

He got the tingle.

He forced his eyes away from the sidewalk and focused on the wall directly below. There was a narrow decorative ledge in the brickwork that ran horizontally above the top-floor windows. The ledge was about five feet below the roof—he would have to lower himself down to it blindly. Worse, it was only a few inches deep.

It would have to be enough.

He tucked the gun away, swung his legs out over the edge, and lowered himself, facing the building, his pointed toes feeling for the ledge, his heart pounding in his chest, pulse throbbing in his ears.

He found the ledge with his toes, lowered himself further, switching his handholds to the underside of the parapet.

He paused, forehead against the wall. Took a deep breath, and another, controlling his heart rate. It was one thing to lean against a balcony railing or stand at the edge of Stone Mountain, but this was not the same. God, the ledge was only a few inches deep, barely enough to accommodate the balls of his feet, and he had to move fast.

Fuck it. Go…

He shuffled his feet along the ledge and slid his hands along the rough brick, almost at a jog, keeping his pelvis forward, fighting to keep his center of gravity close to the wall, the red brickwork just an inch from his nose, not stopping until he reached the corner of the building, his hands raw and bleeding, fingers grasping the edges of bricks.

Now came the fun part, getting around the corner. He reached his right hand around the edge and slapped blindly at the wall, trying to find the ridge in the brickwork. No good, not enough reach, and his center of gravity was moving away from the wall each time he swung his arm. He pulled his hand back and anchored himself in place again, his adrenaline surging.

OK. A simple matter of physics…

He had to throw both hand and foot around the corner at the same time. Blindly. And if he missed the ledge, he’d fall.