Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

Daniel shook his head.

“Then how do you know Trinity didn’t pay off the cameraman?”

“Stop,” Daniel said, a little too loud. He started walking the floor to keep the tension out of his voice. “Just give me a chance. Believe me, if you’d been there…You can talk to the other witnesses, the state trooper—”

“Or your girlfriend.”

“Goddamnit!” Daniel’s entire body welled with rage. “Yes, she saw it too, talk to her if you want. And—because I know you’re curious—I’m not fucking her, OK?”

Nick turned his attention to the file folder on the desk. “You shouldn’t have come here tonight, Daniel. I’m not willing to discuss this while you’re so emotional.”

“But you’re not listening to me.”

“No, you’re not listening to me. This conversation is over.” Nick signed the top piece of paper in the folder, handed the form to Daniel without looking up. “Here are your orders: You are off this case. You are now officially on sabbatical, for spiritual renewal. You will go home and you will get some sleep. In the morning, you will fly to Florence, and from there you will be driven to Poppi, where you will engage in quiet meditation and prayer.” He sent Daniel a hard look. “Get your head together. At the appropriate time, I’ll bring you back to active duty.”

The walls closed in on Daniel. The retreat just outside Poppi was a dumping ground for broken men—whisky priests with the shakes, spiritual burnouts addicted to online gambling, pedophiles addicted to altar boys—once you went in, you stayed until they decided you were fit for service. Some men lived there for decades. Others quit the priesthood to get out.

Nick had sent Daniel to Poppi once before, four years earlier, after Daniel returned from Honduras with blood on his hands. He spent nearly five months in counseling at the retreat before he was deemed spiritually and psychologically fit to leave.

“Nick, please, don’t do this.”

“Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it. Probably never should’ve assigned you to the case, but I thought you were strong enough to handle it. I was wrong.”

“This isn’t like Honduras, I promise you.” He held the form out to Nick, but the older priest didn’t take it.

“No, this is worse. Then, I was worried about your sanity. This time, your loyalty is in question.”

Harsh morning light streamed through the east windows as Daniel paced between dresser and bed, filling a large suitcase with socks and boxers and T-shirts, trousers and toiletries and paperback crime novels.

Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it.

But Nick wasn’t just making sure Daniel would sit it out . There was no television at the retreat in Poppi, no radio, no newspapers. No contact whatsoever with the outside world. However this thing with his uncle played out, Nick was making sure Daniel would miss it entirely.

Was that God’s will?

Whatever’s happening here, it’s happening to your uncle. God doesn’t make coincidences that big. No way He’d want you to sit it out.

Was Nick even thinking about God’s will? Or was protecting the “One True Church” from a Protestant/Holy Roller/con artist, the trump card?

Or was that just Trinity talking, inside Daniel’s head?

He snapped the suitcase shut, sat heavily beside it on the bed. The framed photo on the dresser caught his eye, and he picked it up. Eighteen-year-old Daniel Byrne, freshly minted New Orleans Golden Gloves Welterweight Champion.

Julia had been in the stands when Daniel won the trophy. She didn’t like him fighting, couldn’t stand to see him get hit, but promised if he made the finals, she’d be there. And she was true to her word.

Tim Trinity was also there, standing in the back row, drinking beer from a plastic New Orleans Saints go-cup, cheering louder than anybody, cheering: Danny, Danny, Danny!

Daniel had refused to even acknowledge his existence, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him play proud papa. Instead he used Trinity’s presence to fuel his anger, and scored a knockout when he shattered the other boy’s nose thirty-three seconds into the first round.

Now he looked at the kid he was, holding the trophy over his head and grinning for the camera. Grinning like he was the happiest kid in the world.

You might’ve fooled everyone else, but you didn’t fool me…

He put the photo back on the dresser, picked up a roll of white Title boxing tape and his gloves. God, he wanted to punch something. But he didn’t put them on, just dropped them in his carry-on.

Maybe they’d let him set up a heavy bag at the retreat.

Call it aggression therapy .

A black car idled at the curb in front of Daniel’s apartment building. George leaned against it, smoking.

Daniel stepped out into the morning light, dropped his suitcase, and put on his sunglasses. “I know the way to the airport.”

“Father Nick asked me to travel with you today, look after whatever needs you might have along the way.” George didn’t put any effort into selling the line. There was no use pretending; they both knew it was bullshit.

“He thinks I’m gonna go AWOL?”

George shrugged. “Quit yer whining, Bono , this is as awkward for me as it is for you.” Then he let out a cruel grin. “Well, maybe not.”

“Screw you, George.” Daniel hoisted his bag. “Pop the trunk.”

So this was how far Nick’s confidence had fallen. He’d never made a secret of the fact that Daniel was favorite son among his investigators. Heir apparent.

Now he didn’t even trust Daniel to get on a plane.

I just can’t risk it…

Daniel stewed and George gloated, both in silence, all the way to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, where George led the way through Terminal B, to the Alitalia check-in counter. They checked Daniel’s suitcase and picked up their tickets to Florence.

They don’t send you to purgatory on a private jet.

With time to kill, they found a business travelers’ lounge, grabbed some coffee and croissants, and settled in a quiet corner, where a television displayed a scrolling stock ticker.

George snatched up the remote, aimed it at the television. “I’ll get a news channel, give you one final chance to watch your uncle.”

One final chance. What a prick.

“I don’t want to see it,” Daniel said. He stood up. “I’m gonna check the board, see if we’re on schedule.”

George also stood. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonesome.” They crossed the lounge to the bank of flight information monitors.

Daniel scanned down the departures list, past the Alitalia flight, his eyes stopping on any commercial flights to Atlanta.

The next flight departed in seventy-five minutes.

Virgin Airlines.

Very funny, God. That’s a good one.

The cut-off time for check-in was fifteen minutes away.

Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out…

Daniel watched his reflection in the monitor. Thinking: Just get on the damn plane and do your time in Poppi. Don’t throw your life away.

They returned to the table, and this time Daniel got the remote first. He flipped channels, stopped on ESPN. Sportscenter was showing highlights of a thoroughbred race.