The Trinity Game (43 page)

He shuffled his feet, switched to southpaw, right jabs and left hooks.

If it was meant to be…
Would he end up with Julia after all? While Trinity was still sleeping, Daniel had only managed five
hours, jolted awake by the realization that today he would go to the prearranged meeting place.

Today he would see her again.

And then what?

No use getting ahead of himself. He had more practical matters to focus on. Like keeping his uncle alive.

Trinity had vowed to resume preaching in public and to share the tongues whenever they came upon him. He’d also vowed to share what he’d learned about what he was calling
God’s Only Commandment.

Daniel told him it was suicide and suggested that Trinity send his messages to the world on television, from a secure location. “You don’t deliver a sermon on love from the safety of a bunker,” Trinity had insisted, “you do it out in the open, embracing the world.” He would not be dissuaded.

Worse, he planned to announce the time and place of his next sermon in advance, during an interview with Julia on CNN. Daniel was happy to be able to make good on his promise of an exclusive to Julia, but the announcement was not going to make the task of keeping his uncle alive any easier.

Keeping Trinity alive…
But how, when they didn’t even know the source of the threat? Samson Turner had worked for a large, high-end security company. That told them nothing about who was behind the attacks. It could be any well-heeled entity with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.

And what about the Vatican? What would be their next move? Father Nick would never sanction murder, but was it beyond Conrad Winter? Was there any line Conrad wouldn’t cross for
the greater good
as he saw it? Hard to say.

Daniel unleashed a flurry on the heavy bag as Father Henri walked into the gym.

“You’re still dropping your left,” said Father Henri, as if Daniel had only been gone a week. “How many times I gotta tell ya?”

Daniel grabbed the big leather bag, bringing it to rest. “Never woulda won the Golden Gloves without you,” he said.

“You got that right,” said Father Henri.

This meeting with Julia wasn’t a date, but you couldn’t tell that by the butterflies in Daniel’s stomach. Pat had arrived in New Orleans and was looking after Trinity at the athletic club, and Father Henri had been getting ready to serve them leftover red beans and rice as Daniel headed out to the French Quarter, freshly showered and shaved, dressed in clean clothes, chewing on minty gum.

Daniel entered the Quarter off Rampart, walking down Conti and then turning left onto Bourbon Street. The crowds on Bourbon would help him get lost if he were being tailed. He crossed the street every block or so, checking behind, but didn’t spot a tail.

Walking down Bourbon, heading for this non-date with Julia, felt like walking backwards through time…

Their first real date did not begin well. In those days, Daniel’s relationship to time was somewhat loose, and he was usually ten or fifteen minutes late for anything. When he arrived at the bar where they’d arranged to meet, he spotted Julia at a table in back, scowling into a book. As he approached, she took a long look at her watch and said, “An
hour and fifteen minutes
, Daniel. You better have a hell of an excuse.”

She’d misremembered their agreed meeting time and had been sitting in the bar for an hour and a half. He protested, she checked her planner, and they’d finally laughed about it. The date was salvaged.

It became a private joke between them. Whenever Daniel arrived slightly late, and he usually did, Julia would glare at her watch, add an hour to his lateness, and say, “An hour and eight minutes, Daniel. Your usual punctual self.”

So when Daniel told Julia to meet him at the location of their first date at three o’clock and said he’d be his usual punctual self, they both knew he meant four o’clock at The Abbey bar. Unlikely that the FBI had tapped his cell phone so quickly, but better to be safe, so he’d used the code only she would understand.

He turned right on Governor Nicholls, circled the block to be absolutely sure he wasn’t being tailed, and then headed on down to Decatur.

He ducked inside the darkened bar. Dusty old stained glass windows lined one wall, and the little Christmas tree lights on the ceiling fought to cut through the cigarette smoke.

Julia was sitting at a table near the back wall—the same table where she’d been sitting on their first date—and as Daniel approached, she looked at her watch. And frowned.

“You’re on time,” she said. “I don’t get to say my line.”

“I’ve changed,” he said.

She stood and hugged him hard, whispered in his ear, “I’ve been so worried about you.” She kissed his cheek and they sat. There were two drinks on the table. “Ordered Sazeracs,” she said, “for old times.”

“Here’s looking up your old address,” said Daniel. They clinked their glasses together and drank.

He told her about the journey from Atlanta to New Orleans. He didn’t go into detail about what happened at Pat’s place, simply said that there’d been another attempt on Trinity’s life, and they’d gotten away unscathed. And he told her about their astonishing meeting with Angelica Ory, the voodoo ritual, and Trinity’s epiphany of
God’s only commandment
at the ruins of his soup kitchen in the Lower Nine.

Julia smiled. “That’s what secular humanists have been saying for ages, minus the God part.”

Daniel smiled back at her. “Well, you can ask Tim all about it. On camera.”

Her eyes went wide and she let out a small gasp. “Really? When?”

Daniel knew how important this story was to her, felt a thrill at being able to deliver it. “He wants to sit down with you for an interview, as soon as you can arrange it.”

“Oh my God.” Her face flushed and she looked a bit embarrassed, perhaps at having revealed such naked ambition, such elation at the prospect of bagging her prey. She put her hand on his. “Thank you.”

Daniel’s excitement turned decidedly sexual, and he didn’t know exactly what to do with it.
This is not a date,
he reminded himself, crossing his legs. “I told you you’d get the scoop,” he said. “But he won’t tape it. It has to go out live.”

“Not a problem.” She picked up her cell phone, dialed. “Kathy, Julia. Great news. I’ve got Trinity.”

“P
ut that in your wallet,” said Pat, handing Daniel a card key. “If the shit hits the fan and we gotta split up, we rendezvous at the Pelican Motel on the Westbank Expressway across the river in Gretna. Room 104. It’s booked for the next three nights.”

“Got it,” said Daniel.

“You know I think this whole thing is a terrible idea.”

“I know.”

“I tried to talk him out of it,” said Pat. “Got nowhere.”

“He’s committed to this. He knows we can’t do much to protect him at a public rally. He just doesn’t care.” Daniel tucked the card key away. “All we can do is our best.”

“We gonna have to get very lucky, brother.”

“I know.” Daniel checked his watch. “Julia’s gonna be there with her cameraman in an hour. We should get going.”

The door from one of the back rooms opened and Tim Trinity stepped into the gym. He wore a new silk suit, royal blue to match his Bible, crisp white shirt, matching pink silk tie and pocket square. His boots gleamed white. His hair was back to silver.

“How do I look?” Trinity grinned. “Ready for prime time?” He straightened his tie, shot his cuffs. “Couldn’t believe it, Ozzy still works at Rubensteins. Still had my measurements on file, even
remembered: long-point collar, French cuffs. Now
that’s
customer service.”

Julia and Shooter drove out to Parran’s Po-Boys in Metairie and parked in front, as per Daniel’s instructions. They arrived early, split a seafood muffuletta for dinner. Shooter went back out to the news van to make sure the satellite uplink was working, and Julia stayed in the restaurant, reviewing the questions she’d written for the most important interview of her life.

She’d written her questions on index cards. Now she put the cards in three separate stacks, according to importance. She had forty-seven cards—enough for a ten-hour conversation—but only one hour of airtime with Trinity.

She pushed the two “less important” stacks aside and shuffled through the questions in the “essential” stack. She’d still only have time for half of them, even if Trinity was succinct in his answers. And once the conversation got rolling, she’d need time for follow-ups and redirects.

Damn, it was hard to choose. If the interview went well, she’d ask him to stick around and continue the conversation on tape, for airing later, so it was important to get him relaxed, but she wasn’t going to resort to lobbing him softballs. It was a popular “bonding technique” used by many television reporters, but she’d always considered it disrespectful of the viewers’ time and trust.

And besides, her professional ego would not allow it. She’d worked too hard to be taken seriously in this job, and she was damned if she’d allow herself to be made “soft” by the pressures of television.

Her phone rang, and she answered it. It was Daniel.

“We’re in a motel a few blocks from you,” he said. “There’s a green Forester parked beside your van. The man inside is a friend, Pat Wahlquist. He’ll lead you here.”

Shooter angled a couple of chairs toward each other and wired a microphone to Tim Trinity’s lapel, then switched on two powerful lights and stood behind the camera. He donned a headset as Julia gestured to one of the chairs and Trinity sat.

She took her chair, straightened her jacket, and spoke into the mic for a sound check. Shooter gave her a thumbs-up. Daniel and his friend Pat Wahlquist stood over to one side, in the darkness behind the lights. She could just make out Daniel’s smile, and she nodded back at him.

Trinity leaned forward, touched her knee. “I think Danny’s sweet on you,” he said. “You should give him another chance. You make a good couple.”

“Tim, please,” said Daniel from out of the darkness.

Julia suppressed a smile, cleared her throat. She inserted her earpiece and listened to the director in Atlanta.