Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

The announcer was saying, “…a shocker at Aqueduct, as Mr. Smitten—a fifty-to-one underdog—comes steaming around the final curve and passes the entire field to win the Gotham Stakes, finishing eight-and-a-half lengths ahead of Executive Council, with Sweet Revenge showing in third…”

The race Trinity had predicted, ending exactly as he predicted it.

Daniel’s heart pounded, his head swam, and beads of cold sweat broke out on his upper lip.

That Trinity had nailed it was no surprise, not after everything Daniel had seen in the last week. What shook him was that they’d just come in here on a whim, he’d flipped channels blindly, and landed right on this story.

Was this God’s will?

If God transformed Saul, the violent persecutor of early Christians, into the Apostle Paul— Saint Paul —the main architect of Christianity as we know it, might He not similarly choose a modern sinner against Christ to carry his message today? Trinity was many miles from being a man of God, but his sins paled when compared to Saul’s.

We’re supposed to believe there is no sin so great, no sinner so wicked… No one is beyond redemption through the mercy of God.

Maybe that was the point.

Nick refused to even discuss the possibility. But Nick hadn’t been there.

Ignoring George, Daniel grabbed his carry-on bag and stalked toward the men’s room. He burst through the door, headed to the sinks, dropped his bag on the white tile floor, braced his hands on the counter, and breathed long and deep.

George came in after him, stopped, and said, “What the fucking hell is wrong with you?”

“Anxiety attack,” said Daniel between breaths.

George snorted. “Anxiety, is it? Well now, aren’t we precious?” He unzipped and used the urinal, zipped up, and came to the sink next to Daniel, held his hands under the automatic tap.

Daniel straightened up slowly, stretched his hands over his head, breathed, said, “Sorry, I think I’m OK now,” and brought his arms down with full force, slamming George’s forehead into the faucet.

“Fuck!” George jerked upright and Daniel silenced him with a flurry of fists to the solar plexus, pounding the wind out of him.

As George slid to the floor, struggling for breath, Daniel dragged him into the large wheelchair stall, dragged the bag in after them, locked the door. He got George seated on the toilet, grabbed the roll of boxing tape from his bag, taped his mouth, wrists, and ankles. The cut wasn’t too bad, but foreheads bleed a lot, so Daniel quickly taped the cut as well. It would take a few stitches later.

“I’d apologize, George, but the thing is, I’m not sorry.”

George didn’t try to answer, but his eyes were full of murder.

Daniel slid under the door, quickly washed the blood from his hands, splashed cold water on his face. He wiped his face dry with a paper towel, hooked a finger behind his clerical collar.

And took the collar off.

Sorry, Nick. I just can’t sit this one out.

Atlanta, Georgia…

By sunrise, the highways into Atlanta were jammed solid. Poor folks driving rusted-out beaters, pulling overloaded trailers, senior citizens peeking over the steering wheels of massive RVs, Deadheads with psychedelic peace signs and dancing teddy bears on their station wagon windows, and thousands of others along the shoulder, riding bicycles, or on foot, carrying large backpacks, carrying small children, making the pilgrimage any way they could.

Some holding hands, many singing their faith aloud.

His Eye is On The Sparrow…

People Get Ready…

I Shall Be Released…

Walk In Jerusalem…

Andrew Thibodeaux loved the singing. He loved the pilgrimage. Loved being part of something larger than himself, part of a tribe, loved being at the center of a fast-changing world.

And he loved his secret knowledge.

Because he knew what God was planning.

He inched up I-85, willing his old truck not to overheat from excessive idling. The traffic was getting worse. He switched on the radio and spun the dial to a local talk station. One of those Morning Zoo –type programs, a couple smart-mouth jocks yukking it up at the Lord’s expense.

–“…Can you believe these morons? They come to our city, no place to stay, no thought to how they gonna look after themselves—”

–“My point exactly. And I aim to fix it. So, for any wingnuts listening: I had breakfast with God this morning. He said to tell you: ‘False alarm. Go home.’”

–“Seriously though, we gotta read this update: The Atlanta Police Department has cordoned off the area around the Tim Trinity Word of God Ministries, where the parking lot has become a tent city. There’s no more room, do not go there. Same thing with Centennial Park. It’s cheek-by-jowl, and police are turning new arrivals away.”

–“And don’t even dream of going to Buckhead, ’cause you will get your ass kicked. Rich folk don’t dig on hippies pitching tents on their lawns, pissing on the azaleas, and coming to the door begging for water.”

–“Well said, brudda, and they got mondo private security up there. You get your ass kicked by Wackenhut, you will know your ass has been kicked, know what I’m sayin’? No ifs, ands, or buts.”

–“And besides, the police have already confirmed Trinity is not at home and not anywhere in Buckhead.”

–“He’s. Not. Even. There. Get it, people? So, for your own sake—and frankly, I don’t care if you do get your ass kicked—but for your own sake, please do not go to Buckhead. It’s getting pretty tense up there, and somebody’s gonna really get hurt if you people don’t get the hell back downtown.”

–“Of course, that don’t mean you should go downtown. One more time, for the slow kids in the class: You should turn around, leave Atlanta, and go home. All we’re saying is stay especially out of Buckhead.”

–“Think we beat that point to death, brudda?”

–“Well, these people ain’t exactly paddling with both oars in the water…”

Andrew shifted from neutral into drive as traffic again picked up to a crawl. The radio jocks were pissing him off with their attitude, and now he questioned the wisdom of calling that Julia Rothman woman. Maybe she was just part of the “Liberal Media Elite” that Rush was always talking about, just looking to mock the real Americans whose faith in God helped build this country.

–“Next item…The governor and the mayor have released a joint statement—probably the first time those two ever agreed on anything. It reads: ‘The City of Atlanta remains open for business. If you’re a business traveler, rest assured that your hotel reservation will be honored. Reserved rooms are not being given away. Conventions have not been canceled, and the Georgia High School cheerleading finals will begin tomorrow as scheduled. You will need to add significantly to your estimated travel times in and around the city, but the city is open. If, however, you are planning a trip to Atlanta because of recent media reports concerning Reverend Tim Trinity, please reconsider. There are no hotel rooms left anywhere in the metropolitan area, and we cannot have millions of people living in our parks. We’re a hospitable city, but there is simply no room at the inn, and there is a limit to our patience.’”

–“Whoa. Strong statement, doncha think?”

–“I like the way they tried to thread the needle: Businessmen please come, whackjobs stay away.”