Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

“The girl started self-mutilating at twelve. For three years , the whole town—family, friends, even her priest—treated her like a gift from God. I spent three days in that madhouse, and I can tell you, that girl is seriously broken.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “And we’re the ones who teach them that stigmata exists.”

Father Nick fixed the younger priest with a firm stare. “Just because you haven’t seen it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

But in a decade investigating miracle claims for the Vatican, Daniel hadn’t seen anything yet. Ten years of stigmatic self-mutilators and schizophrenics hearing voices and con artists pumping salt water through hollowed-out statues of the Blessed Virgin. Ten years of oil drum rust-stains that look kinda-sorta-almost like Jesus if you squint your eyes just so and hold your head on an angle and harbor an intense desire to see Jesus in a rust-stain.

Ten years.

Seven hundred and twenty-one cases.

Not one miracle.

It wasn’t as if Daniel wasn’t hoping for a miracle. But even setting aside the principles involved—even if he were willing to start down the slippery slope of ends justifying means —the girl in Nigeria would never stand up to scrutiny; she’d be exposed as a fraud. And putting the Vatican’s stamp of approval on a fake could lead to the kind of PR the Church didn’t need in the war for hearts and minds . “You’re not suggesting I change my verdict on this case, are you, Father Nick?”

“No. There are those who wish you would, but I’m not one of them, and I already made that fact clear to all interested parties. But you need to face reality—the cost of that choice is I now have to loan you to Conrad for a while. I’ll continue to lobby His Eminence, and hopefully your exile will be brief.” He sipped some brandy and forced a smile. “Ah well, if God wants a miracle in Nigeria, He’ll just have to make one Himself.”

“Come on, Nick, there’s gotta be something you can do. Conrad’s a first-class prick, I’ll go crazy working for him.”

“You haven’t walked in his shoes,” said Father Nick. “The horrors he has to deal with…but you’re right, he is a prick.” Nick looked into his snifter for a long while, then took a slow sip. “Actually, there is a case I could claw you back into the ODA on, citing special circumstances, but—”

“Special circumstances?”

“That’s the problem. The very reason I don’t think I should assign the case to you.”

“I’ll do it. Anything.”

“I think it could be bad for you, kiddo. I’ve seen you get personally involved in cases before—”

“One case.” Daniel fought to keep the anger out of his voice. He’d done his penance for Honduras, but Vatican memories are long. Here they forgive, but they never forget. “ Four years ago. Come on, Nick, I’m fine. I can handle it.”

“I dunno.” Nick held eye contact. “How’s your faith holding?”

“I’m working on it, as usual.” Nick didn’t respond, so Daniel quoted the older priest’s familiar phrase back at him, “ ‘Faith is a choice, not a state of being.’” He smiled. “I keep making the choice. That’s what matters, right?”

“You’re not working on it, you’re running around looking for proof. You don’t think I know? Believe me, I know. You made a deal with God a long time ago: you’d pretend to believe, and He’d show His face, and then you’d really believe. And you know how I know? Because that was me as a young man. But time’s ticking, you’re not getting any younger.” Nick finally smiled for real. “Look, you’re my doubting Thomas and I love you for it. I hope someday when I’m old and senile enough, you’ll be sitting here in the big chair. But you do have to work on your faith. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

Daniel shook his head. “What do you want me to say? I keep making the choice, even when I have to make it several times a day. I’m fine, really. I want this case, whatever it is. And the fact that we’re still discussing it tells me you could really use me on it.”

Father Nick conceded the point with a nod. After a long silence he said, “OK. We’ve got a…well, an anomaly, let’s call it. And it has to do with your uncle.”

Daniel played it twice over in his mind until he was sure he’d heard it correctly. A defensive snort escaped before he could rein it in. He followed with, “My uncle is a con man .”

Father Nick held up his hands. “I know. I know, and that makes you perfect for it. You’re the best debunker in the business, and you know his particular tricks.” He picked up a television remote from the desktop. “Have you seen his show recently?”

“It’s been a while,” Daniel said.

Nick aimed the remote at a wide, flat-panel television perched on the antique credenza, and the screen came on blue. He pressed another button, and the blue screen was replaced by video of the Tim Trinity Prosperity-Power Miracle Hour . “This was taped last week,” he said.

On the screen, Reverend Tim Trinity stalked the stage like a large predatory cat, right to left, left to right, pausing occasionally to connect with the camera, never fully at rest. The stage was dressed up like a pulpit, complete with faux stained glass windows (backlit, of course), balsawood columns painted to look like mahogany, and a clear Plexiglas lectern, downstage-center. Trinity wore a royal blue silk suit, white leather cowboy boots and matching belt. On his left wrist, a chunky gold Rolex, its face wall-to-wall diamonds. A wireless microphone curved around from his right ear, like he was God’s own telemarketer. On his right hand he balanced an open Bible, its pages edged in silver, its cover made of fine leather, dyed blue, the same bright shade as his suit.

Daniel wondered if the suit had been selected to match the Bible or the Bible to match the suit.

Trinity spoke with a pronounced New Orleans accent, and his patter flowed like brandy, perfected over more than twenty-five years on the tent revival circuit and in churches, then on television for the last fourteen. The man had his act down cold—didn’t even need the Bible, but for its value as a prop. And that was no small value. He brandished his blue Bible to maximum effect, flipped pages with a flourish, and punctuated important words by thwacking the pages with his left hand, calling attention to the bling on his wrist with each thwack.

“Friends, I have some very bad news for you,” said Trinity, still smiling. “I’ve been called upon this day to reveal a hard truth. And I ain’t gonna sugar-coat it— thwack— NO, sir! I’m here today to tell you, most people who call themselves Christians have a fundamental mis -understanding of the nature of sin .” He stretched it into a two-syllable word.

Trinity stopped at the lectern. His eyes fell shut and he pulled his chin to the right, offering his profile as the camera cut to a close-up. He held the Bible to his forehead for a few seconds, then lowered it, faced forward, and opened his now watery eyes, blinking rapidly. A man of God, on the verge of tears.

“Forgive me. I must share with you what happened last night as I prepared today’s sermon. I was sitting in my study, pen in hand, and the Devil came calling. Yes, the— thwack —Devil! The Devil came to me last night and said, ‘Reverend Tim, stop what you’re doing.’ He said, ‘The people are not ready for this, you must not reveal it. Seal up these things and do not write them.’ Oh yes, and he presented himself to me as an angel of the Lord…but you and I know that the Lord would never stop a prophet from speaking the truth. So I said, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ and his white robes fell away and he stood before me as a naked beast.” Trinity blew out a long breath. “Was I afraid? You know it, brother! You bet I was. But more than afraid, I was—and I know that it wasn’t me speaking, but for the power of Christ, I know it was God speaking through me—I stood up from my desk and I shouted, ‘You Devil, go straight back to Hell! Take one step closer and I will strike you down—” Trinity slashed at an imaginary devil with his Bible “—and I will kick you down—” he stomped hard on the stage “—and I will beat you like a redheaded stepchild!”