The Trinity Game (50 page)

One chance.

He blew out a breath, got in position, lifted his foot, and swung his body, flailing his arm along with his leg around the corner.

He got a toehold, caught hold of a brick, and pulled. Smacked his mouth against the corner and was rewarded with the metallic taste of his own blood, but he made it around the corner, his head swimming, the world spinning.

He stopped and held tight and this time allowed himself three deep breaths. Once the world stopped spinning, he moved a few feet forward and was now directly below the metal pole.

Would it hold? Time to find out.

He wiped the blood off his hands onto his jeans, reached up and grabbed the pole, and swung his legs out into the abyss. Swung his legs back for momentum once, twice, and then forward, hauling himself up, and swung his legs and body right over the parapet.

He let go of the pole and drew his gun as he rolled onto the roof.

The assassin was fifteen feet to his left, hunched over the rifle. But as Daniel hit the roof, Drapeau dropped into a crouch and scooped up the pistol at his feet.

Daniel jerked the trigger.

Drapeau froze in place with a confused look on his face and blood spurting out of his neck. He clasped his free hand over the hole, blood still spurting between his fingers, and raised the pistol.

Daniel jerked the trigger again. And again. And again.

Lucien Drapeau convulsed as bullets tore into his chest. He dropped the pistol and then, in slow motion, his body crumpled to the rooftop.

Daniel lay back on the gravel roof, utterly exhausted. He just lay there for a minute, staring at the sky, thinking of nothing, listening to his own breathing.

Then the sound of cheering, the cheering of thousands, rose up from Jackson Square and reached Daniel’s ears. Wild, euphoric cheering.

He made it…

Daniel stood and wiped his bloody hands on his shirt. His legs felt like rubber bands as he walked to the edge of the roof. He found the rifle’s safety and engaged it. Then uncoupled the scope from the rifle, dropped the rifle on the rooftop, braced his elbows on the ledge, and looked through the scope.

His uncle stood on the stage in front of the blazing white façade of Saint Louis Cathedral, smiling and waving at the multitudes packing Jackson Square. He raised his arms and made a gesture for quiet, and the crowd went silent.

He made it!

Daniel felt an incredible swelling in his chest, felt his face break into a wide grin. He put his eye back to the lens. His uncle placed his blue Bible on the podium, leaned toward the microphones, smiled once more, and began speaking to the world.

And then the front of Tim Trinity’s shirt turned bright red.

A mist of blood filled the air in front of his chest, sparkling in the sunlight like a million tiny rubies.

People scattered, screaming, in all directions as Trinity collapsed to the stage.

Daniel dropped the scope and started running.

A
ndrew Thibodeaux stepped back from the rifle on the table and listened to the pandemonium outside with a sort of calm detachment. He looked at the hole the bullet had ripped in the window sheers. Of course there would be a hole, but he was surprised to see it there. The hole looked odd to him, he didn’t know why.

His mind echoed with instructions from the Lord’s Shepherd. There was still one thing left to do. Killing the Deceiver was the most important thing, and it was accomplished, but Andrew’s task wasn’t finished.

He stepped back to the bed and stared at the pistol.

He didn’t like this part.

Normally this would be a sin, but the Shepherd had explained. God needed Andrew’s help, and so this was not a sin, not this time.

Divine dispensation for divine assistance, the Shepherd had called it.

He was God’s most faithful servant now, God’s special son, and when this last thing was done, he would be carried to paradise on the wings of angels.

He would be welcomed as a hero in heaven, and he would dine at the same table with Jesus and the Apostles.

Andrew Thibodeaux sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the gun, and put the barrel in his mouth, knowing he would be there soon.

Daniel leapt onto the stage where three paramedics worked furiously on his uncle. Trinity’s shirt was open, his chest covered in blood, and a square of clear plastic was taped over the bullet hole. Daniel dropped to his knees and took his uncle’s hand as one of the medics said, “Losing him…” and another said, “Pressure dropping…too much blood…”

Daniel squeezed his uncle’s hand. “God, please don’t die…” He could feel hot tears streaming down his face. “Hang on…stay with me…”

Tim Trinity’s eyelids fluttered and he looked straight up. “Can’t see you.” Daniel put his face right above Trinity’s. Trinity let out a small smile.

“Why, Tim? Why didn’t you wear the vest?”

“God didn’t want me to.” Trinity’s fingers tightened around Daniel’s hand. “It’s OK, Danny, everything happened exactly as it was supposed to.” Trinity’s eyelids closed for a few seconds, fluttered open again. His free hand struggled to lift the Bible it was holding. “Take this…”

Daniel reached across his uncle’s chest and took the blue Bible and held onto it. “I’ve got it.”

Trinity’s smile grew as his eyes became more unfocused. “Quite a ride,” he said. “Quite a ride…”

“I love you, Pops.”

“I love you, son.” Tim Trinity closed his eyes slowly.

He let out a very long breath and did not breathe again.

C
onrad Winter had just signaled the flight attendant for another Bloody Mary when the pilot came over the PA.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve just received some disturbing news from back in New Orleans. I’m sorry to report that, shortly after arriving in Jackson Square, Reverend Tim Trinity was shot, and has died.”
Several horrified gasps filtered up from the economy section. The flight attendant pulled the curtain closed as the captain continued.
“You’ll find CNN on channel four of your personal in-flight monitors, should you wish further updates.”

Conrad put his headset on and tuned to CNN. Trinity had been shot at 1:34, safely after the plane was in the air. Always good to have an alibi.

And then came the news that assured Conrad an alibi would never be needed for this one. Police had just found the man who killed Trinity, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot, in the apartment block across from Saint Louis Cathedral. According to the Louisiana driver’s license found on the body, his name was Andrew Thibodeaux. He had been twenty-three years old.

The lost sheep had fulfilled his duty, and the world was safe from whatever upheaval Tim Trinity might have wrought. And
Father Nick would never know about the involvement of the council in Vatican affairs.

Conrad turned off the monitor and removed the headset as the flight attendant arrived with his drink.

The nearest hospital was Tulane, and Daniel found Pat there. But Pat was still in surgery, so Daniel used the opportunity to get the cuts in his hands stitched up and a butterfly bandage on his split lip where he’d banged it against the wall.

He left Tulane and walked numbly down the block to a diner. He was running on empty, knew he needed sustenance, so he forced himself to eat, even though he had no appetite and couldn’t taste anything.

He wandered back to the hospital. Pat was now in a recovery room, asleep.

Daniel pulled a chair beside the bed and sat with his uncle’s blue Bible in his lap. He noticed the red splatters on the cover, which made his chest ache. He took the Bible to the bathroom and washed the blood off. As he was drying the cover with a paper towel, the book fell open in his hands.

There was an envelope taped inside the front cover. It was full of photographs, snapshots of him as a boy and his uncle as a younger man. Fishing together in a river somewhere in Mississippi…sunbathing on top of the Winnebago…eating chilidogs at the Varsity.

Daniel wept.

It was late when the cab dropped him back at the Saint Sebastian’s Boys Athletic Club. He used his key to open the door and headed straight for the office couch.

But he couldn’t sleep. He switched the light back on, left the office, and went to the room where Trinity had slept.

On the cot was the bulletproof vest Trinity had chosen not to wear without telling anyone. On top of the vest, a piece of paper.

Daniel picked it up and read his uncle’s handwriting…

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
OF REVEREND TIM TRINTIY

(Born Timothy Granger, New Orleans)

I’m not big on long goodbyes, so I’ll be as brief as I know how. I realize a lot of people think I’m crazy, but I do declare that as I write these words I am of sound mind and body.

I hereby appoint my nephew, Daniel Byrne (Hi Danny!) as the sole executor of my estate. He’ll make sure it gets done right. He’s reliable that way.

Now, I got a lot of money. Don’t know how much, really, it’s been coming in so fast of late. Last I checked we were crossing one hundred and fifty million, ($150,000,000) if you can believe that. That’s a right smart number of zeros.