Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

Many lives will be lost…

“You OK?”

Daniel opened his eyes. “No,” he said, “I’m not.”

He dropped a twenty on the bar and bolted out the door.

Father Nick pressed the remote and shut off CNN.

He swiveled his chair to face the large wooden crucifix on the wall opposite his desk, brought his hands together, and closed his eyes. He prayed for the souls of the men who died that morning in Louisiana and for their families. He made the sign of the cross.

He fought the urge to pray for his own soul. He would pray for others, and he would pray for the Lord’s guidance, but he would never use prayer as a Get Out of Jail Free card. The consequences of his decisions were heavy, but carrying that weight was part of the job.

It was Nick’s responsibility to always think of the big picture, even when the big picture was hard to see. If he had taken action to save the men in Louisiana, and the Trinity Anomaly had been disclosed to the world, then whatever power was at work in Trinity would be given instant credence, a papal stamp of authenticity.

And there was no way to know what Trinity might predict—or advise—next. He might tell us what brand of hot sauce works best in gumbo…or he might tell us to nuke Iran.

The Law of Unintended Consequences.

And the unintended consequences could be devastating, not just for the Church, but for the entire world.

Father Nick closed his eyes again, and prayed for guidance.

Tim Trinity stood in the middle of his home theater, staring at the sixty-inch high-resolution plasma television, unable to move. When the “Breaking News” graphic swept across the screen and the newscaster announced the explosion, he’d gone to the wet bar and grabbed a bottle. Now he stood there with the bottle in one hand. He wanted to sit back down on the leather sectional, but he’d forgotten how to operate his body. He wanted to raise the bottle and take a swig, but his arm wouldn’t obey.

He wanted to look away from the blaze, but he couldn’t even blink.

It looked to him like the fires of hell. Hell on earth. And sitting in the control room, just last night, he’d actually heard himself make the prediction.

How the fuck is this even possible?

Tim Trinity stood, unmoving, unblinking, staring at the screen, for a very long time.

And he began to believe.

Daniel jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of his uncle’s Buckhead mansion. He pounded on the front door with the heel of his right hand. The door opened. Tim Trinity made bleary eye contact and turned back inside the house. Daniel followed him down a marble hallway, into a room with a big leather sofa facing a huge television.

The television was tuned to CNN, the volume muted.

Trinity plucked a bottle of bourbon off the coffee table, took a swig. “Yeah, I’m drunk,” he said, “and you would be too, if you had a lick of sense.”

“What did you do?” Daniel thrust an accusing finger at the television screen. “What did you fucking do ?”

“I didn’t make this happen.” Trinity was indeed drunk, but still plenty lucid. “Until two days ago, I was just a guy with a mental problem. Question is what did you do?”

It felt like a punch in the gut. “I tried to stop it.”

“Evidently you didn’t try hard enough.” Another swig of bourbon. “Lemme ask you something. If the archbishop of New Orleans showed up at the refinery, you think he coulda convinced them there was a problem?”

Daniel didn’t answer.

“But they didn’t send him, did they? So who’s to blame here? Why don’t you take a look in the mirror, Danny?”

“No, I-I called…I tried…”

“Yeah? Well, I called too.” Trinity glanced at the television. “Wasn’t enough. And your bosses apparently didn’t share your enthusiasm, or they’d have put some muscle behind it.” He pointed the bottle at Daniel. “You may not wear the collar, but long as you work for them, you’re carrying their water. So let’s cut the bullshit, boy. What does the Vatican really want from me?”

“They sent me here to discredit you. Debunk your tongues act.”

“But they knew the predictions were coming true. So what’s really going on? Eliminating the competition? What?”

Daniel brushed past his uncle and turned the television off. He sat down, braced his hands on his knees, and breathed slowly. “They don’t believe God is working through you. They don’t think it’s Satan, but they really don’t know.”

“Oh, give me a fucking tax break, Danny. Satan? ’Course it’s not Satan. Tell you who else it’s not. It’s not Santa Claus or the Green Goblin or the Easter Bunny neither. Satan’s a fairy tale.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s not God.” Daniel nodded toward his uncle. “You’re not exactly a poster child for faith.”

Trinity sat on the sofa beside his nephew, spoke quietly. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since you got here.” He put the bottle on the floor. “But you know what I think? I think the Church is worried that God is working through me. They’ve got a trillion-dollar business to protect, and they’re gonna start looking pretty musty-dusty, with their robes and incense and Latin incantations, if a guy like me is a miracle. Not good for their brand.”

Daniel stood. “I’m not listening to this. The Vatican is not a business—”

“Christ, son, everything’s a business. Thought I’d taught you at least that much.”

“And you are not a miracle. You’re not even a fucking believer.”

Daniel walked out without another word, his hands balled into fists.

Daniel sat nursing a Guinness and picking absently at a Cobb salad. He didn’t feel hungry, but needed the nourishment, so he forced himself to eat. It was coming up on nine o’clock. The television screen above the bar displayed a live shot of what used to be the main refinery building, glowing like a man-made sunset in the Louisiana night.

Still burning, but now under control.

The opening graphics for AC360 swept across the screen, and Anderson Cooper’s familiar voice said, “Tonight on AC360 : ‘Tragedy and Mystery in Louisiana.’ Our guest is Julia Rothman, senior investigative reporter at the New Orleans Times-Picayune …”

Daniel’s fork clattered to the floor.

“…and she has a shocking angle on this story that you are not going to want to miss.”

Oh, no…

After a commercial break that felt like a year, Anderson Cooper gave a recap of the day’s events, voiced over a video package showing the inferno in full blaze and night shots of firefighters at work. No final figures yet, but at least one hundred dead. An interview clip of an oil company spokesman established that the fire was a freak accident, the likely culprit a faulty pressure detector that had misread an open valve as closed.

And then there was Julia, sitting right across from Cooper in the studio. She smiled, and something fluttered in Daniel’s chest.