“Anyway, it’s in the past where it belongs. But you were right, what you said before in Atlanta. I was a priest for the wrong reasons…and I’ve known it a long time. But every morning I woke up and made the decision to be a priest. And now…Now I just can’t keep making that decision anymore.
They rode in silence a while, but this time it was an easier silence.
“She’s not married, is she?” said Trinity.
“Nope.”
“You think she’ll have you back?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “But I aim to find out.”
As the skyline of New Orleans grew large before them, Trinity said, “Been home since Katrina?”
Daniel shook his head. “You?”
“No.”
“You rode out the storm, huh?”
“Not my finest hour.” Trinity stared out the window. With the baseball cap and sunglasses, his face was unreadable, and Daniel decided not to press him for details. So many things had happened, in both their lives. So many years had flowed past. It wasn’t a matter of getting caught up.
Everything was different now. They were different now.
Trinity pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “Christ, I got a headache…”
“I’ll stop and pick up some aspirin.”
“No, it’s—ackba—” His hand flew up and punched the roof liner, a shower of sparks raining down from the cigarette between his fingers, “—backala—Shit, it’s comin’ on strong—abebeh reeadalla…” His left leg jerked up, slamming his knee against the bottom of the dash. “Fuck!” His entire body spasmed and his head snapped to the right, sending out a loud crack as it hit the doorframe.
The tongues were upon him.
On television, it had looked ridiculous. From the back row of the audience, disturbing. But up close it was a horror show. Chills ran up and down Daniel’s arms as he quickly exited the highway, tires squealing in protest on the off-ramp, Trinity babbling and thrashing beside him.
He screeched to a stop on the service road, threw the truck in park, and grabbed his uncle’s shoulders, struggling to hold him down and prevent further injury.
The next thirty seconds felt like they would never end. But then, finally, the tongues stopped and Trinity’s body relaxed and his eyes regained their focus.
“I’m OK, I’m all right…It’s over.” Trinity blew out a long breath and sat back upright. “Man, that one came on fast.” He wiped the beads of perspiration from his face and forced a smile.
“It looks painful,” said Daniel.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Trinity chuckled, lighting a new cigarette. “Yeah, it ain’t exactly a day at the beach.” He dragged on his smoke, shook his head. “It is what it is. Anyway, it’s over. Let’s go.”
“All right.” Daniel put the car in gear. He didn’t want to dwell on it either.
Diamondhead, Mississippi…
They were five of the nation’s top Christian evangelists, boasting congregations in the tens of thousands, highly rated television programs, bestselling books. One had even been a spiritual advisor to presidents.
They did not, however, all preach the same gospel. Three preached salvation and prosperity in equal measure (but they called it “abundance” and took pains to include the non-financial rewards of “abundant relationships” and “abundant health”). The other two had no interest in abundance of any sort. They preached that the End Times are upon us and the only thing that matters is getting right with Jesus in time to catch the Rapture and avoid being here for the living nightmare that will soon torment those left behind.
Despite their differences, they’d come together for a live roundtable discussion on television, to present a dire and urgent warning to the world:
Reverend Tim Trinity is not a servant of the Lord, and his followers are being led away from righteousness and salvation and straight to eternal damnation in hell.
That was the message. The case they were making to the world. They quoted a ton of scripture and carefully explained how each quote helped make the case. And they frequently returned to the warning, repeating it exactly the same, word for word, each time.
Andrew Thibodeaux sat at the Formica counter, absently stirring sugar into his eighth cup of coffee while starting at the television. He’d stopped at the Chevron next door to gas up, had almost fallen asleep standing at the pump, and realized how hungry he was when his eyes snapped open and the familiar yellow aluminum siding with the glossy black letters came into focus.
WAFFLE HOUSE
Two words that spelled oasis across the Southland. Even the red, white, and blue banner spanning the top of the menu provided comfort, assurance. Tim Trinity was not the Messiah and nothing made sense anymore, but a Waffle House was still a Waffle House, buttermilk biscuits were still buttermilk biscuits, and America was still America.
Andrew needed that assurance. Needed it badly.
But it wasn’t enough.
The End Times preachers on the television weren’t satisfied with warning everyone what Tim Trinity was not and moved the conversation to what Trinity might be.
Pastor Billy Danforth made their case. “Please understand, I’m not saying that Tim Trinity is the Antichrist. I’m saying he could be, and failure to look at the evidence is an abandonment of our pastoral duty…”
The waitress who smelled of old lady perfume stopped by to collect Andrew’s empty plates and said something about all the coffee he was drinking. He wasn’t listening, but she laughed and he realized she’d made some kind of joke, so he smiled at her and made a laughing sound before turning back to the television.
“…The prophecies in scripture provide characteristics of the Son of Perdition, and you can’t deny a good number describe Trinity. Does he not present himself as an apostle of Jesus while preaching a different Jesus? Does he not make war with the saints and seek to change God’s law? In his last televised sermon he said, Paul was wrong. If that isn’t making war with the saints, pray tell me what is…”
Andrew remembered to stop stirring his coffee, put the spoon down.
“…Does he not speak great things and tongues, and understand dark sentences, and does the whole world not wonder after him? Indeed, has he not deceived millions into thinking he is the returning Messiah?”
Andrew remembered to drink some coffee, noticed it was cold.
“The Antichrist shall rise up out of the water,” said the other End Times preacher, deftly taking the baton. “And this man’s career rose up to new heights from the floodwaters of Hurricane Katrina. And I find it ominous that we know absolutely nothing of Tim Granger—that’s his real name, I refuse to call him Trinity—we know nothing of Granger’s bloodline on his father’s side...”
Andrew Thibodeaux swallowed the rest of his coffee, signaled the waitress for a refill, and returned to the screen.
New Orleans, Louisiana…
As they drove into the city, Daniel was struck by the number of rooftops still covered with blue tarpaulin, Dumpsters in driveways, portable storage containers on front lawns. Six years after Katrina, and New Orleans—the cultural womb of the South, the city that gave America much of its soul—was still struggling to her feet.
It’s a shanda, he thought, recalling the Yiddish word Julia once taught him. He turned onto South Carrolton, and as they rose to higher ground, the blue tarpaulins disappeared and the city looked more like her old self.
He drove in on Magazine Street, and as they passed Bordeaux he felt a smile invade his face. Le Bon Temps was still in business and, aside from a fresh coat of paint, looked the same as when he drank and danced in the place with Julia and her friends on Friday nights…fourteen years ago.
Would she take him back?
Casamento’s was also open. Under different circumstances Daniel would’ve suggested they stop for some gumbo and an oyster loaf, but just seeing the place was enough to make him happy. He switched the radio on, set the tuner f
or 90.7 FM.
“The mighty O.Z.,” said Trinity. “Greatest radio station in the world. I’ve missed it.”
“I stream it on the Internet.”
“Thought you guys all sat around listening to Gregorian chants.”
“Please,” said Daniel. He turned up the volume. Louis Armstrong and Louis Jordan belting out I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You.
“Perfect!” Trinity laughed.
They continued past cafés and art galleries, hair salons and tattoo parlors, pawnbrokers and auto body shops as Satch assured them he’d be glad when they were dead.
It felt like coming home.
Daniel could see himself making a life with Julia here in New Orleans. Even if she wouldn’t have him back, this was home. And despite Katrina, despite having been abandoned by the rest of America, New Orleans was rebuilding.
A good place to rebuild his life…assuming he lived through this strange odyssey he was on with his uncle.
The disc jockey thanked Big Easy Scooters, the Ra Shop, and Harrah’s Casino for their sponsorship, and then played a beautiful Trombone Shorty song about falling in love. The song ended as they passed under the 90, and Daniel slowed and shut off the radio. He found a parking spot on Peters, just a block from Canal, the French Quarter beyond. Despite the muggy heat, he slipped into a windbreaker he’d borrowed from Pat’s clothing stash. He reached across Trinity, opened the glove box, and put the gun in his waistband, under his shirt.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” he said. “Keep the hat and glasses on, and walk at a relaxed pace. I’ll be about ten paces back, on the opposite sidewalk. Don’t look for me, I’ll be there. And don’t look around to see if anyone recognizes you—that’s my job. Your job is to be casual. Remember, you’re just another tourist. Don’t strut—”
“I do not strut,” said Trinity indignantly. Daniel couldn’t tell if he was serious.
“You have a distinctive walk, let’s put it that way, and the point here is to blend in. Oh, and go ahead and smoke—nobody’s ever seen you smoking on television, so it’ll help to disassociate you from your public image. Just walk to the address on Dumaine—”
“Number 633…in case we get separated.”
“Don’t worry,” said Daniel.
“OK.” Trinity reached for the door handle.
“Wait.” Daniel pulled Pat’s map from the backpack, followed the red line with his finger. “Take Bienville to Charters, then stay on Charters all the way in to Dumaine.”
“Bienville, Charters, Dumaine. Got it.” Trinity climbed out and shut the door. He lit a cigarette, returned the Zippo to his pocket, and started walking. Daniel let him get some distance, then followed.
People usually try too hard when changing their appearance, thought Daniel, and end up calling more attention to themselves. Trinity’s disguise wasn’t perfect, but the points of reference for his slick public persona had all been removed. Jeans and a plain cotton shirt had replaced the silk suit. The silver hair was now brown and mostly covered by a ball cap, and shades covered his eyes. He was smoking, and the trademark swagger was gone from his walk. His gait was a little too stiff at first, almost lurching, like his quads were sore after a long run. But after a couple of blocks, he eased into it.
All in all, it was a pretty good disguise. Except for those damn cowboy boots. Shit. Daniel had intended to stop and buy Trinity some plain shoes, but with all the excitement that morning, he’d forgotten. Well, they were pretty dirty now, almost gray, not the gleaming white boots people saw on television. And it was too late to call Trinity back. Daniel said a silent prayer and hoped for the best.
The sidewalks were busy enough but not congested, so following was easy. Pat’s route had them walking always on one-way streets, with the direction of traffic, so cars were passing from behind and motorists couldn’t easily see Trinity’s face. Daniel scanned the pedestrians as he followed. Nobody seemed to pay any mind to the man with the brown hair and baseball cap, walking stiffly down Rue Charters and puffing on a coffin nail.
As Trinity turned the corner onto Dumane, Daniel closed the distance between them and followed at five paces until Trinity crossed the street and stopped in front of a small, white, one-story house with a gray slate roof, green shutters on the windows, and a matching green door.
Exactly as Trinity had described it from his vision. Daniel felt weightless as he crossed the street.
It was a shop. A small red neon sign in the window glowed: OPEN. Trinity stood motionless, staring at something else in the window. Daniel came to a stop beside him. Next to the neon sign, a larger, hand-painted sign hung in the window:
AYIZAN VODOU TEMPLE OF SPIRITUAL LIGHT
AND GIFT SHOP
ANGELICA ORY, MAMBO
Daniel’s heart sank. “Are you kidding me? A voodoo shop? That’s what we came here for? That’s what we dodged bullets to get to?”
But Trinity wasn’t staring at the sign. “Look.” He pointed to a laminated newspaper article in the window. “That’s her. The woman from my dream.”
The newspaper headline read, PRIESTESS ORY SEES BRIGHT FUTURE FOR CRESCENT CITY TOURISM, and the black woman in the photo was beautiful, her features as Trinity had described them.
“This can’t be happening.” Daniel shook his head.
Trinity tossed his cigarette in the gutter. “Well, we’re here, and that’s her,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “Come on.” He opened the door and a bell jangled above their heads, announcing their arrival as they stepped inside the shop.
“Be right with you,” called a woman’s voice from behind a beaded curtain at the back of the room.
The shop was exactly what Daniel expected, and feared, from the sign in the window. A tourist trap, full of vigil candles and anointing oils, plastic statues of various saints, gris-gris bags and voodoo dolls, necklaces made from chicken feet and alligator teeth, new age books and meditation CDs, even cartoon voodoo zombie postcards to send back to the folks in Iowa. A sign behind the counter displayed a price list for services ranging from jinx removals to tarot readings. The place smelled of patchouli and frankincense.
Angelica Ory stepped through the beaded curtain, a coffee cup in her hand, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help—”
She gasped and her eyes went wide—piercing green eyes, rendered almost hypnotic by the contrast with her deep chestnut complexion—and she dropped the cup. It broke on the floor, splashing coffee across the hardwood. “I–it can’t be,” she stammered, pointing a finger. “It’s you.” She turned and darted back through the beads, disappearing into the room beyond.
Daniel looked at his uncle. “That was weird.”
“She didn’t even glance my way, much less recognize me,” said Trinity. “She was pointing at you.”
Daniel turned the deadbolt, locking the shop’s front door. He switched off the neon sign in the window and walked gingerly to the beaded curtain at the back of the room.
Through the beads, he could see a sitting room furnished in carved mahogany, upholstered in rough silk, an antique oriental rug covering the floor. A mix of folk art and fine oil canvases, all depicting religious imagery—some Voodoo, some Catholic. In one corner, an altar. On the altar, burning candles and joss sticks shared space with various fetishes. An egg in a bowl of cornmeal…a black chicken’s foot hanging on a leather string…three oranges…an open bottle of Barbancourt rum…a corncob pipe…a scattering of divination shells…a Saint John the Conqueror root…a small bottle of Florida Water cologne…the skull of a baby alligator. The altar was backed by a framed mirror and a carved mahogany crucifix.
Ory stood at the counter of the kitchenette along one wall. Her back was to Daniel.
“Are you OK?”
She turned to face him, a small sherry glass in her hand. She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m being very rude,” gesturing to the couch. “Please, come in, and bring your friend. May I offer you a glass of port?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, ma’am,” said Trinity. “Thank you, that would be very nice.” He passed Daniel and sat on the couch.
Ory’s eyes never left Daniel’s face. She seemed to be cataloging his features. “It’s Daniel, isn’t it?”
“How did you—”
“You won’t believe me,” she said.
“I will,” said Trinity.
Ory’s hand trembled slightly as she refilled her sherry glass and poured two more. “I dreamed of you last night, Daniel,” she said. “And I woke up with your name on my lips. I know, it must sound crazy…”
Daniel felt lightheaded. He said, “In this dream, did I say anything? Did we speak?”
Ory nodded. “You walked into the shop and called me by name. You said, ‘Angelica, I need you to understand, we’re on this road together,’ and I said something like, ‘What road?’ and ‘Who are you?’ but you just smiled, and then you turned and left the shop. And I woke up. That’s it.” She stared at him for a few seconds. “It’s truly incredible, you look exactly like you did in the dream.”
Tennessee Williams Suite – Hotel Monteleone…
William Lamech had sent the men on a kill mission, with strict instructions to report every three hours. The last text from Samson Turner had come just before dawn: STAGE 2 UNDERWAY. They’d located the truck and were moving in for the kill.
Not a word since. Lamech glanced at his watch. They’d now missed three scheduled reports. If they’d been arrested, he’d have heard about it. If the mission had gone wrong and any one of them had survived, he’d have gotten a report.
Lamech didn’t get this far in life by lying to himself, and he wasn’t going to start now. The men were dead.
He scrolled through the contacts in his cell phone and stopped at the direct line of Eric Murphy, Esq. Murphy was a senior partner at a blueblood Canadian law firm with offices in the historic district of Old Montreal and at least one former prime minister on the payroll. Lamech had been paying the firm half a million dollars per year for the last five years. The invoices read legal consulting, but that was a fiction. In truth, the money was just a retainer. It bought him access, should he ever need it, to the services of a man named Lucien Drapeau. The only way to contact Drapeau was through Eric Murphy, and keeping that conduit open was worth $500K a year. If you actually used Drapeau, it cost you an additional five million.
The Trinity Game Page 24