The Trinity Game

nothing yet on the preacher, information gathering would give way to action.

He picked up the phone again.

The room was white. Ceiling, walls, floor. All white. No furniture. Just a white, windowless room with no door. Not exactly standing in a cloud of dry ice at the pearly gates, but this much was certain: Daniel was dead.

There was another man in the room. He was what people call ruggedly handsome. He wore black pants and a clerical collar over a white muscle shirt. A priest with serious guns.

He said, “Hi, Daniel, I’m Saint Sebastian,” and held out his hand. Casual. Friendly.

Daniel shook the hand of Saint Sebastian. “I’m dead,” he said.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Saint Sebastian winked at Daniel. “Not exactly what you expected.”

“No.”

Saint Sebastian shrugged. “Peter’s down with the flu. I’m filling in.”

Daniel felt lightheaded. He made himself nod.

Saint Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. “That was a joke. Lighten up, will you? Breathe.”

Daniel gasped, worked to catch his breath.

“Good. In, out…deep breaths, slow down…excellent. Now just relax, everything will be clear in a minute. See, I’m here to do two things. The first is to calm you down and explain the rules.”

Daniel calmed instantly. Thinking: Impossible.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” said Saint Sebastian. “You’re thinking: That’s already two things. And you’re right. Thing is, calming you down doesn’t count, they just send us to explain the rules. But if we don’t calm you down first, the explanation goes nowhere.”

Is this for real? But not out loud. Out loud, Daniel said, “What are the rules?”

“Rules are, we don’t sweat the details here. So you can stop worrying about how many times you jerked off or if you did the right things with your life. You’re either one of the good guys or you’re not. And you were one of the good guys.” A sly grin, like they were teenage boys sharing some locker-room joke. “Tried to be, anyway. The mixed results don’t matter. You did more good than bad.”

“That’s it? That’s the metric? More good than bad? Heaven’s going to be a lot more crowded than I imagined.”

“Not exactly.” Saint Sebastian moved to his left. And again. Like a boxer. But his hands hung loose at his sides. “There’s one more criteria. A test. Different for everybody. Well, not everybody. People aren’t as different from each other as they imagine. There are a thousand different tests. One thousand, exactly, for all the souls in the universe. I looked it up.” A third move to the left, flawless footwork sliding him into slow orbit around Daniel. “Anyway, the test is the second thing. And I’m here to administer it. Your test is to fight me.”

Daniel pivoted, took a small skip-step back, keeping Saint Sebastian directly in front of him. The saint now raised his hands, adopting a true fighter’s stance, and continued to make his way around Daniel in a tight circle. Daniel pivoted again, but kept his hands below the waist. Adrenaline leaked into his bloodstream and his heart beat faster and his hands wanted to make fists. He forced his hands to stay open.

“I’m not going to hit you—you’re a saint.”

“A saint who’s been sent here to kick your ass,” said Saint Sebastian. “Understand? Because I don’t want to start this dance until I’m confident you get it. I’m about to beat the crap out of you. I would feel a lot better about it if you’d put up a defense. Sure enough, you’ll be judged by your actions, but nobody expects you to take it like a dog.” Up on the balls of his feet now, circling faster. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, you’re free to go wild on me, unleash the beast. That’s your judgment to make. Or you can go all Queensberry Rules, if that’s the way you roll. But don’t just stand there like some used-up journeyman laying down for a bottle of Night Train.”

“I must be dreaming,” said Daniel. “I’m dreaming.”

Saint Sebastian snapped a left jab off Daniel’s nose. The pain brought white blotches to his vision. As his vision cleared, blood began to leak from his nose, down his upper lip.

“I’m trying to give you some good advice here, son,” said Saint Sebastian. “You’d do well to listen and heed me. I beseech you to fight.”

A sharper jab. Square on the nose.

“Ow!” said Daniel. “That fuckin’ hurt.” He could taste his own blood now. His hands came up. Fists.

“Game on,” said Sebastian.

It did not begin well. Sebastian was a better boxer in better condition, and Daniel had no idea what to do with himself. But after withstanding an opening flurry, Daniel blocked a jab and drove a right hook into Sebastian’s ribs, stepped back and snapped two jabs off the saint’s nose. The right-cross caught only shoulder, and Sebastian came back fast. Daniel ducked a hook, pulled away from the left uppercut, circled in time and delivered a straight right to the solar plexus that stopped Sebastian’s orbital dance. Followed with two left jabs to the nose, but Sebastian took the second one on the forehead.

Daniel moved in, pinned Sebastian’s upper arms in a clinch, and sucked air. “OK, I fought you,” he panted. “Can we stop now?”

Sebastian bit off Daniel’s right ear, crimson-sprayed it to the floor, and broke the clinch.

“Faked you out with that Queensberry shit, huh?” He flashed a sympathetic smile full of bloody teeth. “Smarten up, son. Your only job here is to survive this thing. Got it?”

Sebastian set his feet and drove a fist into Daniel’s abdomen.

Daniel’s stomach spasmed, legs went out from under him, and his knees hit the canvas.

As Saint Sebastian shuffled his feet and moved in for the next attack, the bell rang, signaling the end of the first round.

The alarm clock was ringing. Daniel slapped it off, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and planted his bare feet on soft carpet. The drapes were open, as he’d left them, and daylight flooded the hotel room.

Images from the dream lingered. What the hell was all that? He took a minute to shake off the cobwebs, then called room service and ordered breakfast. He said his morning prayers, then went through a set of push-ups, crunches, and Hindu squats, followed by a quick shower and shave. He ate while listening to the audio file of Trinity’s latest tongues act, which had arrived by e-mail from Gerry during the night.

It started with a new installment of Trinity’s Jimmy the Greek spiel, predicting that Mr. Smitten would win the upcoming Gotham Stakes at Aqueduct, finishing eight-and-a-half lengths ahead of Executive Council, with Sweet Revenge coming in third. Then another weather report of no consequence. But what came next robbed Daniel of his appetite.

“If you work at the oil refinery in Belle Chasse, Louisiana, do not go to work on Tuesday. Do not go to work. Anyone near the Plaquemines Parish refinery should get some distance. There will be a terrible accident, an explosion. Tuesday morning. Many lives will be lost.”

Daniel grabbed his cell phone, speed-dialed Father Nick’s private line. Nick picked up on the second ring.

“What have you got for me on the good reverend?” said Nick.

“I’m sending an audio file. Listen to it and call me back.”

Daniel hung up, forwarded the audio file to Nick’s e-mail address. Five minutes later, his cell rang.

“Did you hear it?”

“I did.”

“He said Tuesday morning. Tomorrow is Tuesday, we gotta plan our move.”

“Oh, please. It’ll just play out as one of Trinity’s swing-and-miss predictions.”