Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

It stopped the man cold. The blade came down a few inches and he stood with his mouth half open, probably trying to decide which of two possibilities was more likely to be true. Either Daniel was insane, or…

“Don’t make me prove it,” said Daniel. “And you’re the one making assumptions: talking about big city faggots, when I never said shit about mutant inbred hillbillies.” Then, softening his tone, “Now I came in peace to make you an offer, and the offer still stands. The Caddy’s not stolen, but for the sake of argument, you could strip it and sell it a piece at a time. The catalytic converter alone would buy two of your trucks. So you wanna make a trade, or what?”

The man sucked air through his front teeth, and the hand with the knife dropped down by his side. He walked slowly to the back of Trinity’s Escalade and pointed at the tailgate with the tip of the knife and said, “C’mere.”

Daniel walked back, stood beside the man, and looked at the bullet holes put there by Samson Turner. One in the bumper, four in the tailgate, and one more, higher, on the pillar to the left of the rear window. Three inches to the right, and it would’ve exploded through the back of Daniel’s head. Three inches. The thought turned his groin to ice.

The man said, “Who’s chasin’?”

Daniel shrugged. “Wish I knew. But we can’t hang around, so the offer expires in ten seconds. Yes or no?”

The windshield was stained nicotine yellow and the cab smelled like cigarette smoke and body odor in equal measure, but at least the redneck had taken care with maintenance. Daniel checked the oil as he topped up the gas and found it clean, recently changed. Brake and transmission fluids both fine, tire pressure bang-on. It would get them to New Orleans and beyond. And an old pickup on these roads was like a yellow cab on the streets of Manhattan or a Vespa in Rome. It would help them disappear into the background noise of the place.

A couple miles down the road, Trinity said, “Way you talked to that boy…” He let out a whistle.

“We needed the truck.”

“Gotta call bullshit on that, Danny. That was about way more than a truck. I mean, how badly you itchin’ to die, exactly?”

Daniel looked squarely at his uncle. “Don’t think I’m itching to die, not really. But I do like to keep death within spitting distance. Helps me stay sharp.”

“Probably not healthy.”

“Coming from you,” Daniel smiled, “that should probably worry the hell out of me.”

They stopped in Calhoun, and Daniel ducked into the Piggly Wiggly for supplies. On the way out, he stopped at a payphone by the front doors and fed all his coins in.

She answered on the first ring.

Daniel said, “Julia, it’s me, I—”

“ Jesus Christ! Where the hell have you been, why didn’t you call me?”

There was no mistaking the tremor in her voice.

“I am calling you. Sorry it took a while.”

“For the last twenty-two-and-a-half hours , I thought you were fucking dead, Danny. Long time to find a payphone.”

“Look, I’m glad the idea of my death upsets you, but I’m sorry you had to be upset for so long. That’s the best I can offer. We had to lay low.”

“Hold on.” The phone clunked in Daniel’s ear as she put it down. A few seconds of silence, and she came back with her composure intact. “Trinity’s alive?”

“Not for the record.”

“I see.”

“We need to put some miles behind us. I promise when it’s time to resurrect him, you get an exclusive.”

“OK. I’ll sit on it for now, but I need to be able to reach you. Area code 706…where are you, Columbus?”

“No, and we’re not staying put. I’ll get a pre-paid cell, call you with the number. And I need a favor. We give ourselves away if we use any plastic, so I need you to wire us some cash.”

“Um, wow…” There was a pause on the line. “Yeah, OK, fine.” A longer pause. “You realize I’m breaching my professional ethics with this. We’re supposed to cover the story, not be the story.”

“I’ll never tell.” Daniel smiled to himself. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“It’s not a joke, Danny. It’ll come out eventually, and my journalistic credibility will go down the toilet.”

“Yeah, that would really suck for you. Meanwhile, we’re running for our lives.”

“Don’t be a jerk. I said I’d send it. I just want you to know what it’s going to cost me.”

“OK, but what do you want me to do about that, other than feel guilty?”

“I want you to stay alive.”

Atlanta, Georgia…

Just four blocks from the Governor’s Mansion on West Paces Ferry, a sober stone mansion stands on a corner lot, surrounded by an eight-foot-high, spiked iron fence. Any casual observer would note the electronic gates across the driveway, the intercom and CCTV camera mounted on a steel post outside the gates, and the expansive lawn, green as the skin of a lime and trimmed golf course short. A closer inspection would reveal cameras mounted under the front porch overhang, high-density xenon security floodlights bracketed under the eaves, and razor-sharp holly bushes planted beneath the ground-floor windows. But unless you knew they were there, you’d never notice the bulletproof glass behind the double-hungs or the gun-port flaps beside each window.

A white stretch limousine pulled to the gate and the driver’s window came down. The driver pressed the intercom call button. A man’s voice said, “Confirmation code,” and the driver punched it in on the keypad. The gates hissed open, and the limousine pulled to the top of the long, circular drive. The driver cut the engine, got out and opened the back door, and led Father Nick inside Southeast Regional Headquarters of the Department of World Outreach.

“Nick, good to see you.” Conrad Winter stood in the marble vestibule with his hand out and a smug grin on his face.

“Didn’t know you were stateside.” Nick gave a curt handshake, thinking: This day is getting better by the goddamned minute.

“Our resources are at your disposal,” Conrad raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, “but it’s your show. I’m simply here to observe and consult and offer assistance in any capacity you may need.”

It was a lie, of course. Conrad was Nick’s counterpart at Outreach, of equal rank, and was not here to play second fiddle. Cardinal Allodi had sent him to be Allodi’s eyes and ears and to take control of the operation if Nick faltered.

And they both knew it.

“Fine. Bring me up to speed, what have we learned?”

“They both got out alive,” said Conrad, walking toward a stairwell at the back of the hallway. “Command center is downstairs.” At the bottom of the stairs, he slid a card key into the lock, a green light flashed on, and the thick steel door buzzed open.

The room was about thirty feet square. Young priests sat at computer stations, tapping keyboards, reading screens. Others sat at desks, talking into headsets, working the phones. A massive electronic map of the southeastern United States dominated one wall. Another wall was covered with flat-panel monitors.

Nick knew of World Outreach’s high-tech command centers, but he’d never been inside one before. He understood the Church’s need for such operations in a troubled world and for men like Conrad to run them—but he wasn’t looking forward to this.