Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

“What’s the brief on Lamech?” asked Battles.

“He’s been mostly legit for a long time, but he grew up on Taylor Street…rose through the ranks running the backroom ’books in Chicago. They called him Lucky Lamech back in the day. Anyway, he was the Outfit’s guy when the mob ran Vegas, but he went corporate when Vegas went corporate and hasn’t shown any direct O.C. contact in a while. I worked my contacts on this, and my impression is the old guard still holds him in high esteem, but he’s bigger than they are, and they have no claim on him. I’ve also heard rumors that, aside from his legitimate sportsbook in Vegas, he runs an exclusive network of high-end bookies catering to the white-collar crowd. Just rumors, no evidence.”

“Wait,” said Robertson, flipping some pages in his notebook. “You said Lamech stopped taking those bets the same day Trinity made the prediction. That’s the same show when he predicted the oil refinery accident. Two days before the news of Trinity’s predictions, and how to decode them, went public.”

“So maybe the same source who tipped Trinity off about the fixed race also tipped off Lamech,” said Bryson.

Winfield Battles spoke up from the head of the table. “What’s bugging you, Steve?”

Hillborn sat, gestured at the file folder before him. “Trinity’s predictions are all over the place—football, ponies, hockey, car races, golf…If this is happening, we’re looking at the largest sports-fixing racket in history. Exponentially larger…I mean, unbelievably large.”

“All the more reason to get our asses in gear,” said Battles. “We’ve got a thread connecting Trinity and Lamech, and with Trinity fucking up the betting business, Lamech is drowning in motive for the bombing. The thread has two ends—we pull at both. Agent Hillborn will take lead on the O.C. angle; liaise with the Evidence Response Team in Atlanta. Robertson and Bryson go with him, Toronteli and Bock work it from this end, and K-Mac liaise with Terrorism.” Battles nodded at the television screen. “Publicly this is an investigation of the bombing at Tim Trinity’s television studio. But if there’s a sports-fixing scam attached, we need to find it and take it down, fast.” He stood, glanced at his watch. “Learjet’s being fueled as we speak, gentlemen. Get cracking.”

Atlanta, Georgia…

Julia sat alone in Kathy Reynolds’s office, willing the cell phone in her hand to ring, trying not to cry.

The day had started so well. The morning meeting was a relaxed affair, with plenty of cynical asides and a few good laughs. Television or print, young or old, Southern or Yankee, reporter humor crosses all lines, and Julia felt more at home than she had since she left New Orleans. She realized she could work in television if she had to. She’d stick it out until newspapers were no longer the best place to report the news, or until they could no longer pay a living wage, whichever came first. Hopefully that day wouldn’t come, but if it did, she’d stay in the game, keep fighting.

They watched the live broadcast of Trinity’s show in a conference room and joked about the unmitigated disaster that was his Faith without Works Is Dead “sermon.” People were actually calling it that, without the ironic quotation marks. Trinity hadn’t given the media much to work with, and just ten minutes after he left the stage, the post-game pundits started repeating themselves. Kathy made a face at Julia and said, “Cue the freak show,” and after a commercial break, the coverage shifted to the tent cities of Trinity’s parking lot and Centennial Park for instant-reaction interviews with hippies high on weed, bikers high on malt liquor, Christians high on the promise of impending rapture (or the promise of impending Armageddon), and the certifiably insane.

And then the fucking bomb exploded inside Trinity’s dressing room.

Six people dead in the blast. At least six, maybe more.

It was not known if Tim Trinity was among the dead, but there was evidence of at least three men among the remains. The Fulton County Medical Examiner said several people were in close proximity to the device when it detonated, and consequently there were many fragments of human remains to sort out and identify. Trinity had not been seen since the explosion. A few survivors were found in the hallway outside his dressing room, but they were now in intensive care. No one knew if any would survive long enough to talk to the police.

The Atlanta PD had swarmed into Trinity’s church, and an FBI forensics team arrived an hour later. Then they started carrying out the body bags. Some of the bags were mostly empty, carrying only a foot, or a head, or an arm.

That’s when Julia let out a low moan. She didn’t even know she’d done it—to her, it had been inside her head—but everyone in the conference room turned from the television to face her, and Kathy took her arm and said, “You look unwell,” and led her through the bustling newsroom and into the office.

And now she sat, staring at her cell phone, thinking: Goddamn you, Danny. Call me… She tried in vain to avoid the memory of their walk together the previous afternoon…their kiss…

And the last thing she’d said to him before walking away. “Danny, it was over for us a long time ago,” she’d said, “and it’s going to stay over, even if you quit the priesthood.”

He would have called. If he were alive, he would have called by now…

Daniel’s cell had gone missing in the chaos, and he’d removed the battery and SIM card from his uncle’s phone so it could not be used to track their location. He stayed on the blue highways, off the interstates, and he stayed well under the speed limit.

The post-adrenaline hangover left nerves raw for both men, and Trinity didn’t seem to want conversation, which was OK with Daniel. He needed the time to think. He drove without destination for a while, then climbed high into the rural mountains of northwest Georgia, where the roads became dirt. He cruised deep into the woods until he spotted an unoccupied hunting cabin, thirty miles from the nearest town. The cabin was off the grid, electricity supplied by a generator. The generator was cold, the cabin dark, and there was no evidence of a recent visitor.

Daniel jimmied a window open and climbed through, unlocked the front door and let Trinity in. The hunting cabin was nicer than he’d expected. Probably owned by an executive who liked the idea of roughing it but saw no reason to experience discomfort while doing so.

Trinity found canned soup and beef jerky in the cupboard, enough to keep them until morning. At sunset Daniel covered the windows with blankets and lit an oil lamp he found under the sink, and they ate soup out of the can and listened to the news on a wind-up radio.

Twelve dead at Trinity’s church. Six killed by the explosion, another six trampled to death in the stampede from the building. Over two dozen injured.

“I told you I had a feeling something bad was gonna happen,” said Trinity.

“This would qualify,” said Daniel.

The radio told them that Reverend Tim Trinity was missing and was thought to have died in the explosion, but this was as yet unconfirmed. The Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Office directed questions to the FBI, and the FBI wasn’t releasing a statement until the forensic investigation was complete and next-of-kin had been notified.