Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

Belle Chasse, Louisiana…

Andrew Thibodeaux sat in front of the television, flipping channels. Flipping past no-money-down real estate wealth-building systems and magic kitchen appliances, revolutionary exercise equipment and spray-on hair. Sat in front of the television, eating spicy pork cracklings by the handful and drinking Diet Dr Pepper and wondering how his life had come to this. Almost a year since his wife ran out on him with that asshole cop from Gretna, and a week didn’t pass he didn’t vow to forget all about her and move on.

He’d promised himself that he would make big changes in his life, go back and get his GED, enroll at community college. Maybe even become a policeman himself. He was still young enough, and he knew he was plenty smart.

He’d promised himself that he would knock off the junk food, start working out, get back in shape. All it took was a little willpower.

He’d promised himself a lot of things over the last twelve months. But he just kept on going to work, coming home, eating crap, and staring at the television. He hadn’t even taken their wedding photo off the wall.

He didn’t think he was still grieving over the dead marriage. At least, he didn’t feel sad. He felt…nothing. A paralyzing numbness that rendered all his promises hollow, even as he made them. Maybe if he could sleep, his motivation would return. He’d never been much of a sleeper, but in the last year he’d only been getting a few hours a night.

God, he was tired.

He remembered something from high school science, before he dropped out. Objects at rest stayed at rest unless acted upon. There had to be a way to break the inertia.

All his life he’d felt that God had bigger plans for him, that his life would someday amount to something. He’d prayed for guidance, but the Lord had not yet seen fit to answer him. When his wife took off, he thought it might be a sign. But if it was a sign, it was one he couldn’t read. It didn’t point him anywhere.

He pressed the remote control’s little button again, but the channel didn’t change. He reached over, pulled a fresh pack of batteries from the end table’s drawer, and loaded them into the remote.

It still didn’t work.

On the television screen, Reverend Tim Trinity was talking directly to the camera. It seemed he was talking directly to Andrew.

Reverend Tim said God wanted to work miracles in Andrew’s life.

Maybe the broken remote wasn’t an accident. They say God’s signs are everywhere but we’re usually too busy to notice them. Maybe the remote control stopped working on exactly this channel for a reason. Maybe this was one of God’s signs.

Maybe Reverend Tim had a message for him.

Andrew put the chair into full recline and settled in to listen.

God, he was tired.

The alarm clock woke him two hours later. The television was off, although he could not remember shutting it off. He put the chair upright, stood, and worked the kinks out of his neck, walked to the bedroom and shut off the alarm. He climbed into his work clothes, brushed his teeth, and made a couple of peanut butter sandwiches. He wrapped the sandwiches in tinfoil and put them in his lunchbox, along with couple cans of Dr Pepper and a fresh pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco.

He grabbed his hardhat and headed to the refinery.

Andrew punched in early and went to the refinery’s cafeteria for a coffee before his shift. He took his paper cup to a long table, where the foreman was just winding up a story that had the guys in stitches.

“…so if I fall asleep on the job today, y’all can blame my mama,” said the foreman.

“Coming in late, that sounds really bad,” said Andrew.

The foreman laughed. “Get your mind outta the gutter, Andy. I was just telling the boys ’bout my late night telephone adventures. First, Mama calls in a tizzy, sayin’ there’s some emergency, and she gave my number to our old preacher. Then the preacher calls, goin’ on about how he’s had some kinda vision, and we gotta shut down the refinery. Guy sounded totally sauced too.”

“Your preacher’s a drunk?”

“Hasn’t been our preacher for a long time. Moved away after Katrina, now he’s a big shot in Hotlanta, but Mama used to drag me to his church in the city. Tim Trinity.”

The paper coffee cup stopped halfway to Andrew’s mouth. “Reverend Tim?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Seen him on TV. What’d he say, exactly?”

“The guy was goin’ nuts, said this place was set to explode this morning. Asked him how he knew, he started on about speaking in tongues and everything’s backwards and I don’t know what all. Didn’t make any sense.”

But it made sense to Andrew. Last night had been a sign, after all. Reverend Tim was speaking for God. Andrew didn’t know how he knew this, but he’d never been surer of anything in his life. He dropped his hardhat on the table and headed for the exit.

“Wait, where you goin’?”

“I can’t stay.”

“Boy, you as crazy as that preacher. Get back here and pick up your lid.”

“You guys better come along,” said Andrew. “You stay, you’re gonna die.”

“You leave, don’t plan on coming back,” the foreman shot back. Andrew turned away. “I’m serious, Andy. You walk out that door, you’re fired.”

Andrew kept on walking.

But as he moved through the sun-drenched parking lot toward his truck, doubt crept around the edges of his mind. He’d just walked away from the only decent job he ever had. Was Reverend Tim really talking for God? The absolute certainty he’d felt in the cafeteria now eluded him.

He climbed into his rusty old F-150, drove off the compound, and headed down the road a couple blocks. He pulled a U-turn, parked facing the refinery. Rolled down the windows, opened his lunchbox, and filled his right cheek with chewing tobacco. Popped the top on a Dr Pepper and settled in to wait.

Thinking: I’m either the smartest man in Louisiana, or the dumbest.

The foreman hated the term productivity meeting . To him, productivity meetings were just about the least productive thing ever devised by middle management, and that was saying plenty. Those corporate frat boys were master time-wasters. Their other major skills included ass-covering, blame-shifting, and brownnosing. But he was a deputy supervisor, which made him junior management, so he had to play along.

At least the meetings were held in the cafeteria. It was the frat boys’ way of showing that they were just plain folk . Those boys loved slumming with the men who worked for a living.

The foreman drank some coffee and tried to focus on the meeting. The IT guy was giving another general warning about sending jokes around by company e-mail. Not naming any names, but the ones who did it knew who they were, and the threat was implied, if things didn’t change soon.

The foreman’s ears popped as if he were in an elevator. Sudden change in air pressure , he thought. Something’s wrong. Something’s—

A blast rocked the building. Windows blew out of the far wall. Men screamed. Everyone grabbed the table for support…

The room went dark…

The HVAC and refrigerators and vending machines shut down, and the cafeteria fell silent…

A low rumble reverberated through the walls. Red emergency lights started flashing and the alarm began blaring, once every second. The generators kicked in, and white light strips set into the floor glowed a line to the door.