Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

“Bienville, Charters, Dumaine. Got it.” Trinity climbed out and shut the door. He lit a cigarette, returned the Zippo to his pocket, and started walking. Daniel let him get some distance, then followed.

People usually try too hard when changing their appearance, thought Daniel, and end up calling more attention to themselves. Trinity’s disguise wasn’t perfect, but the points of reference for his slick public persona had all been removed. Jeans and a plain cotton shirt had replaced the silk suit. The silver hair was now brown and mostly covered by a ball cap, and shades covered his eyes. He was smoking, and the trademark swagger was gone from his walk. His gait was a little too stiff at first, almost lurching, like his quads were sore after a long run. But after a couple of blocks, he eased into it.

All in all, it was a pretty good disguise. Except for those damn cowboy boots. Shit. Daniel had intended to stop and buy Trinity some plain shoes, but with all the excitement that morning, he’d forgotten. Well, they were pretty dirty now, almost gray, not the gleaming white boots people saw on television. And it was too late to call Trinity back. Daniel said a silent prayer and hoped for the best.

The sidewalks were busy enough but not congested, so following was easy. Pat’s route had them walking always on one-way streets, with the direction of traffic, so cars were passing from behind and motorists couldn’t easily see Trinity’s face. Daniel scanned the pedestrians as he followed. Nobody seemed to pay any mind to the man with the brown hair and baseball cap, walking stiffly down Rue Charters and puffing on a coffin nail.

As Trinity turned the corner onto Dumane, Daniel closed the distance between them and followed at five paces until Trinity crossed the street and stopped in front of a small, white, one-story house with a gray slate roof, green shutters on the windows, and a matching green door.

Exactly as Trinity had described it from his vision. Daniel felt weightless as he crossed the street.

It was a shop. A small red neon sign in the window glowed: OPEN. Trinity stood motionless, staring at something else in the window. Daniel came to a stop beside him. Next to the neon sign, a larger, hand-painted sign hung in the window:

AYIZAN VODOU TEMPLE OF SPIRITUAL LIGHT

AND GIFT SHOP

ANGELICA ORY, MAMBO

Daniel’s heart sank. “Are you kidding me? A voodoo shop? That’s what we came here for? That’s what we dodged bullets to get to?”

But Trinity wasn’t staring at the sign. “Look.” He pointed to a laminated newspaper article in the window. “That’s her. The woman from my dream.”

The newspaper headline read, PRIESTESS ORY SEES BRIGHT FUTURE FOR CRESCENT CITY TOURISM, and the black woman in the photo was beautiful, her features as Trinity had described them.

“This can’t be happening.” Daniel shook his head.

Trinity tossed his cigarette in the gutter. “Well, we’re here, and that’s her,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “Come on.” He opened the door and a bell jangled above their heads, announcing their arrival as they stepped inside the shop.

“Be right with you,” called a woman’s voice from behind a beaded curtain at the back of the room.

The shop was exactly what Daniel expected, and feared, from the sign in the window. A tourist trap, full of vigil candles and anointing oils, plastic statues of various saints, gris-gris bags and voodoo dolls, necklaces made from chicken feet and alligator teeth, new age books and meditation CDs, even cartoon voodoo zombie postcards to send back to the folks in Iowa. A sign behind the counter displayed a price list for services ranging from jinx removals to tarot readings. The place smelled of patchouli and frankincense.

Angelica Ory stepped through the beaded curtain, a coffee cup in her hand, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help—”

She gasped and her eyes went wide—piercing green eyes, rendered almost hypnotic by the contrast with her deep chestnut complexion—and she dropped the cup. It broke on the floor, splashing coffee across the hardwood. “I–it can’t be,” she stammered, pointing a finger. “It’s you .” She turned and darted back through the beads, disappearing into the room beyond.

Daniel looked at his uncle. “That was weird.”

“She didn’t even glance my way, much less recognize me,” said Trinity. “She was pointing at you.”

Daniel turned the deadbolt, locking the shop’s front door. He switched off the neon sign in the window and walked gingerly to the beaded curtain at the back of the room.

Through the beads, he could see a sitting room furnished in carved mahogany, upholstered in rough silk, an antique oriental rug covering the floor. A mix of folk art and fine oil canvases, all depicting religious imagery—some Voodoo, some Catholic. In one corner, an altar. On the altar, burning candles and joss sticks shared space with various fetishes. An egg in a bowl of cornmeal…a black chicken’s foot hanging on a leather string…three oranges…an open bottle of Barbancourt rum…a corncob pipe…a scattering of divination shells…a Saint John the Conqueror root…a small bottle of Florida Water cologne…the skull of a baby alligator. The altar was backed by a framed mirror and a carved mahogany crucifix.

Ory stood at the counter of the kitchenette along one wall. Her back was to Daniel.

“Are you OK?”

She turned to face him, a small sherry glass in her hand. She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m being very rude,” gesturing to the couch. “Please, come in, and bring your friend. May I offer you a glass of port?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Trinity. “Thank you, that would be very nice.” He passed Daniel and sat on the couch.

Ory’s eyes never left Daniel’s face. She seemed to be cataloging his features. “It’s Daniel, isn’t it?”

“How did you—”

“You won’t believe me,” she said.

“I will,” said Trinity.

Ory’s hand trembled slightly as she refilled her sherry glass and poured two more. “I dreamed of you last night, Daniel,” she said. “And I woke up with your name on my lips. I know, it must sound crazy…”

Daniel felt lightheaded. He said, “In this dream, did I say anything? Did we speak?”

Ory nodded. “You walked into the shop and called me by name. You said, ‘Angelica, I need you to understand, we’re on this road together,’ and I said something like, ‘What road?’ and ‘Who are you?’ but you just smiled, and then you turned and left the shop. And I woke up. That’s it.” She stared at him for a few seconds. “It’s truly incredible, you look exactly like you did in the dream.”

Tennessee Williams Suite – Hotel Monteleone…

William Lamech had sent the men on a kill mission, with strict instructions to report every three hours. The last text from Samson Turner had come just before dawn: STAGE 2 UNDERWAY. They’d located the truck and were moving in for the kill.

Not a word since. Lamech glanced at his watch. They’d now missed three scheduled reports. If they’d been arrested, he’d have heard about it. If the mission had gone wrong and any one of them had survived, he’d have gotten a report.

Lamech didn’t get this far in life by lying to himself, and he wasn’t going to start now. The men were dead.

He scrolled through the contacts in his cell phone and stopped at the direct line of Eric Murphy, Esq. Murphy was a senior partner at a blueblood Canadian law firm with offices in the historic district of Old Montreal and at least one former prime minister on the payroll. Lamech had been paying the firm half a million dollars per year for the last five years. The invoices read legal consulting , but that was a fiction. In truth, the money was just a retainer. It bought him access, should he ever need it, to the services of a man named Lucien Drapeau. The only way to contact Drapeau was through Eric Murphy, and keeping that conduit open was worth $500K a year. If you actually used Drapeau, it cost you an additional five million.