Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

They did not, however, all preach the same gospel. Three preached salvation and prosperity in equal measure (but they called it “abundance” and took pains to include the non-financial rewards of “abundant relationships” and “abundant health”). The other two had no interest in abundance of any sort. They preached that the End Times are upon us and the only thing that matters is getting right with Jesus in time to catch the Rapture and avoid being here for the living nightmare that will soon torment those left behind.

Despite their differences, they’d come together for a live roundtable discussion on television, to present a dire and urgent warning to the world:

Reverend Tim Trinity is not a servant of the Lord, and his followers are being led away from righteousness and salvation and straight to eternal damnation in hell.

That was the message. The case they were making to the world. They quoted a ton of scripture and carefully explained how each quote helped make the case. And they frequently returned to the warning, repeating it exactly the same, word for word, each time.

Andrew Thibodeaux sat at the Formica counter, absently stirring sugar into his eighth cup of coffee while starting at the television. He’d stopped at the Chevron next door to gas up, had almost fallen asleep standing at the pump, and realized how hungry he was when his eyes snapped open and the familiar yellow aluminum siding with the glossy black letters came into focus.

WAFFLE HOUSE

Two words that spelled oasis across the Southland. Even the red, white, and blue banner spanning the top of the menu provided comfort, assurance. Tim Trinity was not the Messiah and nothing made sense anymore, but a Waffle House was still a Waffle House, buttermilk biscuits were still buttermilk biscuits, and America was still America.

Andrew needed that assurance. Needed it badly.

But it wasn’t enough.

The End Times preachers on the television weren’t satisfied with warning everyone what Tim Trinity was not and moved the conversation to what Trinity might be .

Pastor Billy Danforth made their case. “Please understand, I’m not saying that Tim Trinity is the Antichrist. I’m saying he could be, and failure to look at the evidence is an abandonment of our pastoral duty…”

The waitress who smelled of old lady perfume stopped by to collect Andrew’s empty plates and said something about all the coffee he was drinking. He wasn’t listening, but she laughed and he realized she’d made some kind of joke, so he smiled at her and made a laughing sound before turning back to the television.

“…The prophecies in scripture provide characteristics of the Son of Perdition, and you can’t deny a good number describe Trinity. Does he not present himself as an apostle of Jesus while preaching a different Jesus? Does he not make war with the saints and seek to change God’s law? In his last televised sermon he said, Paul was wrong . If that isn’t making war with the saints, pray tell me what is…”

Andrew remembered to stop stirring his coffee, put the spoon down.

“…Does he not speak great things and tongues, and understand dark sentences, and does the whole world not wonder after him? Indeed, has he not deceived millions into thinking he is the returning Messiah?”

Andrew remembered to drink some coffee, noticed it was cold.

“The Antichrist shall rise up out of the water,” said the other End Times preacher, deftly taking the baton. “And this man’s career rose up to new heights from the floodwaters of Hurricane Katrina. And I find it ominous that we know absolutely nothing of Tim Granger—that’s his real name, I refuse to call him Trinity—we know nothing of Granger’s bloodline on his father’s side...”

Andrew Thibodeaux swallowed the rest of his coffee, signaled the waitress for a refill, and returned to the screen.

New Orleans, Louisiana…

As they drove into the city, Daniel was struck by the number of rooftops still covered with blue tarpaulin, Dumpsters in driveways, portable storage containers on front lawns. Six years after Katrina, and New Orleans—the cultural womb of the South, the city that gave America much of its soul—was still struggling to her feet.

It’s a shanda , he thought, recalling the Yiddish word Julia once taught him. He turned onto South Carrolton, and as they rose to higher ground, the blue tarpaulins disappeared and the city looked more like her old self.

He drove in on Magazine Street, and as they passed Bordeaux he felt a smile invade his face. Le Bon Temps was still in business and, aside from a fresh coat of paint, looked the same as when he drank and danced in the place with Julia and her friends on Friday nights…fourteen years ago.

Would she take him back?

Casamento’s was also open. Under different circumstances Daniel would’ve suggested they stop for some gumbo and an oyster loaf, but just seeing the place was enough to make him happy. He switched the radio on, set the tuner for 90.7 FM.

“The mighty O.Z.,” said Trinity. “Greatest radio station in the world. I’ve missed it.”

“I stream it on the Internet.”

“Thought you guys all sat around listening to Gregorian chants.”

“Please,” said Daniel. He turned up the volume. Louis Armstrong and Louis Jordan belting out I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You .

“Perfect!” Trinity laughed.

They continued past cafés and art galleries, hair salons and tattoo parlors, pawnbrokers and auto body shops as Satch assured them he’d be glad when they were dead.

It felt like coming home.

Daniel could see himself making a life with Julia here in New Orleans. Even if she wouldn’t have him back, this was home. And despite Katrina, despite having been abandoned by the rest of America, New Orleans was rebuilding.

A good place to rebuild his life…assuming he lived through this strange odyssey he was on with his uncle.

The disc jockey thanked Big Easy Scooters, the Ra Shop, and Harrah’s Casino for their sponsorship, and then played a beautiful Trombone Shorty song about falling in love. The song ended as they passed under the 90, and Daniel slowed and shut off the radio. He found a parking spot on Peters, just a block from Canal, the French Quarter beyond. Despite the muggy heat, he slipped into a windbreaker he’d borrowed from Pat’s clothing stash. He reached across Trinity, opened the glove box, and put the gun in his waistband, under his shirt.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he said. “Keep the hat and glasses on, and walk at a relaxed pace. I’ll be about ten paces back, on the opposite sidewalk. Don’t look for me, I’ll be there. And don’t look around to see if anyone recognizes you—that’s my job. Your job is to be casual. Remember, you’re just another tourist. Don’t strut—”

“I do not strut,” said Trinity indignantly. Daniel couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“You have a distinctive walk, let’s put it that way, and the point here is to blend in. Oh, and go ahead and smoke—nobody’s ever seen you smoking on television, so it’ll help to disassociate you from your public image. Just walk to the address on Dumaine—”

“Number 633…in case we get separated.”

“Don’t worry,” said Daniel.

“OK.” Trinity reached for the door handle.

“Wait.” Daniel pulled Pat’s map from the backpack, followed the red line with his finger. “Take Bienville to Charters, then stay on Charters all the way in to Dumaine.”