The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  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.

  One chance.

  He blew out a breath, got in position, lifted his foot, and swung his body, flailing his arm along with his leg around the corner.

  He got a toehold, caught hold of a brick, and pulled. Smacked his mouth against the corner and was rewarded with the metallic taste of his own blood, but he made it around the corner, his head swimming, the world spinning.

  He stopped and held tight and this time allowed himself three deep breaths. Once the world stopped spinning, he moved a few feet forward and was now directly below the metal pole.

  Would it hold? Time to find out.

  He wiped the blood off his hands onto his jeans, reached up and grabbed the pole, and swung his legs out into the abyss. Swung his legs back for momentum once, twice, and then forward, hauling himself up, and swung his legs and body right over the parapet.

  He let go of the pole and drew his gun as he rolled onto the roof.

  The assassin was fifteen feet to his left, hunched over the rifle. But as Daniel hit the roof, Drapeau dropped into a crouch and scooped up the pistol at his feet.

  Daniel jerked the trigger.

  Drapeau froze in place with a confused look on his face and blood spurting out of his neck. He clasped his free hand over the hole, blood
still spurting between his fingers, and raised the pistol.

  Daniel jerked the trigger again. And again. And again.

  Lucien Drapeau convulsed as bullets tore into his chest. He dropped the pistol and then, in slow motion, his body crumpled to the rooftop.

  Daniel lay back on the gravel roof, utterly exhausted. He just lay there for a minute, staring at the sky, thinking of nothing, listening to his own breathing.

  Then the sound of cheering, the cheering of thousands, rose up from Jackson Square and reached Daniel’s ears. Wild, euphoric cheering.

  He made it…

  Daniel stood and wiped his bloody hands on his shirt. His legs felt like rubber bands as he walked to the edge of the roof. He found the rifle’s safety and engaged it. Then uncoupled the scope from the rifle, dropped the rifle on the rooftop, braced his elbows on the ledge, and looked through the scope.

  His uncle stood on the stage in front of the blazing white façade of Saint Louis Cathedral, smiling and waving at the multitudes packing Jackson Square. He raised his arms and made a gesture for quiet, and the crowd went silent.

  He made it!

  Daniel felt an incredible swelling in his chest, felt his face break into a wide grin. He put his eye back to the lens. His uncle placed his blue Bible on the podium, leaned toward the microphones, smiled once more, and began speaking to the world.

  And then the front of Tim Trinity’s shirt turned bright red.

  A mist of blood filled the air in front of his chest, sparkling in the sunlight like a million tiny rubies.

  People scattered, screaming, in all directions as Trinity collapsed to the stage.

  Daniel dropped the scope and started running.

  Andrew Thibodeaux stepped back from the rifle on the table and listened to the pandemonium outside with a sort of calm detachment. He looked at the hole the bullet had ripped in the window sheers. Of course there would be a hole, but he was surprised to see it there. The hole looked odd to him, he didn’t know why.

  His mind echoed with instructions from the Lord’s Shepherd. There was still one thing left to do. Killing the Deceiver was the most important thing, and it was accomplished, but Andrew’s task wasn’t finished.

  He stepped back to the bed and stared at the pistol.

  He didn’t like this part.

  Normally this would be a sin, but the Shepherd had explained. God needed Andrew’s help, and so this was not a sin, not this time.

  Divine dispensation for divine assistance, the Shepherd had called it.

  He was God’s most faithful servant now, God’s special son, and when this last thing was done, he would be carried to paradise on the wings of angels.

  He would be welcomed as a hero in heaven, and he would dine at the same table with Jesus and the Apostles.

  Andrew Thibodeaux sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the gun, and put the barrel in his mouth, knowing he would be there soon.

  Daniel leapt onto the stage where three paramedics worked furiously on his uncle. Trinity’s shirt was open, his chest covered in blood, and a square of clear plastic was taped over the bullet hole. Daniel dropped to his knees and took his uncle’s hand as one of the medics said, “Losing him…” and another said, “Pressure dropping…too much blood…”

  Daniel squeezed his uncle’s hand. “God, please don’t die…” He could feel hot tears streaming down his face. “Hang on…stay with me…”

  Tim Trinity’s eyelids fluttered and he looked straight up. “Can’t see you.” Daniel put his face right above Trinity’s. Trinity let out a small smile.

  “Why, Tim? Why didn’t you wear the vest?”

  “God didn’t want me to.” Trinity’s fingers tightened around Daniel’s hand. “It’s OK, Danny, everything happened exactly as it was supposed to.” Trinity’s eyelids closed for a few seconds, fluttered open again. His free hand struggled to lift the Bible it was holding. “Take this…”

  Daniel reached across his uncle’s chest and took the blue Bible and held onto it. “I’ve got it.”

  Trinity’s smile grew as his eyes became more unfocused. “Quite a ride,” he said. “Quite a ride…”

  “I love you, Pops.”

  “I love you, son.” Tim Trinity closed his eyes slowly.

  He let out a very long breath and did not breathe again.

  Conrad Winter had just signaled the flight attendant for another Bloody Mary when the pilot came over the PA.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve just received some disturbing news from back in New Orleans. I’m sorry to report that, shortly after arriving in Jackson Square, Reverend Tim Trinity was shot, and has died.” Several horrified gasps filtered up from the economy section. The flight attendant pulled the curtain closed as the captain continued. “You’ll find CNN on channel four of your personal in-flight monitors, should you wish further updates.”

  Conrad put his headset on and tuned to CNN. Trinity had been shot at 1:34, safely after the plane was in the air. Always good to have an alibi.

  And then came the news that assured Conrad an alibi would never be needed for this one. Police had just found the man who killed Trinity, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot, in the apartment block across from Saint Louis Cathedral. According to the Louisiana driver’s license found on the body, his name was Andrew Thibodeaux. He had been twenty-three years old.

  The lost sheep had fulfilled his duty, and the world was safe from whatever upheaval Tim Trinity might have wrought. And Father Nick would never know about the involvement of the council in Vatican affairs.

  Conrad turned off the monitor and removed the headset as the flight attendant arrived with his drink.

  The nearest hospital was Tulane, and Daniel found Pat there. But Pat was still in surgery, so Daniel used the opportunity to get the cuts in his hands stitched up and a butterfly bandage on his split lip where he’d banged it against the wall.

  He left Tulane and walked numbly down the block to a diner. He was running on empty, knew he needed sustenance, so he forced himself to eat, even though he had no appetite and couldn’t taste anything.

  He wandered back to the hospital. Pat was now in a recovery room, asleep.

  Daniel pulled a chair beside the bed and sat with his uncle’s blue Bible in his lap. He noticed the red splatters on the cover, which made his chest ache. He took the Bible to the bathroom and washed the blood off. As he was drying the cover with a paper towel, the book fell open in his hands.

  There was an envelope taped inside the front cover. It was full of photographs, snapshots of him as a boy and his uncle as a younger man. Fishing together in a river somewhere in Mississippi…sunbathing on top of the Winnebago…eating chilidogs at the Varsity.

  Daniel wept.

  It was late when the cab dropped him back at the Saint Sebastian’s Boys Athletic Club. He used his key to open the door and headed straight for the office couch.

  But he couldn’t sleep. He switched the light back on, left the office, and went to the room where Trinity had slept.

  On the cot was the bulletproof vest Trinity had chosen not to wear without telling anyone. On top of the vest, a piece of paper.

  Daniel picked it up and read his uncle’s handwriting…

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  OF REVEREND TIM TRINTIY

  (Born Timothy Granger, New Orleans)

  I’m not big on long goodbyes, so I’ll be as brief as I know how. I realize a lot of people think I’m crazy, but I do declare that as I write these words I am of sound mind and body.

  I hereby appoint my nephew, Daniel Byrne (Hi Danny!) as the sole executor of my estate. He’ll make sure it gets done right. He’s reliable that way.

  Now, I got a lot of money. Don’t know how much, really, it’s been coming in so fast of late. Last I checked we were crossing one hundred and fifty million, ($150,000,000) if you can believe that. That’s a right smart number of zeros.

  Well, here’s what I want done with it:

 
Take a third of the money and put it to use in the small towns where I preached in tents all those years (Danny will remember). Just spend it on whatever those towns need.

  For the general welfare, as the saying goes.

  Take the rest of the money, two-thirds of it, and use it to help rebuild the parts of New Orleans that need it the most.

  That’s it, folks. Short and sweet, as promised. Now I gotta go and meet my maker. It’s time.

  Be good to each other.

  Love,

  Tim

  New Orleans, Louisiana – four weeks later…

  An autopsy revealed that Tim Trinity had been carrying a tumor the size of a small quince in his head. Atheists said the tumor meant that the Trinity Phenomenon was not evidence of a God. Believers said the tumor was God’s instrument.

  And since nobody could explain how the predictions worked, most folks just went on believing, or not believing, whatever they believed, or didn’t, before the whole thing began.

  Daniel was getting on with the business of grieving, and he was grateful for the grief. Of all the miracles he’d witnessed in the past two months, perhaps the greatest of all was that he’d reconnected with his uncle. This is what the grief taught him, and the pain of this loss was better than the emptiness he’d felt when they were estranged.

  He felt like he’d found himself again. He felt truly blessed.

  He made it down to Dulac once a week, and on the last visit was surprised to see that Pat had already lost the crutches. Having taken a bullet for the cause, Pat didn’t even complain when Daniel said thank you.

  Julia had become quite a sensation in the world of journalism. She still wrote for the Times-Picayune but also traveled on joint assignment with CNN. Daniel was living with her—until he found an apartment, they said—but she was away as much as she was home these days.

  He missed her when she was away, but he didn’t begrudge her making the most of the opportunity. And when he drove her to the airport last week, she’d said that maybe it was time for him to stop pretending to look for an apartment. So the early signs for the relationship were all good. He was happy to stop pretending to look for an apartment and was looking forward to her return later that afternoon.