The Trinity Game

Harsh morning light streamed through the east windows as Daniel paced between dresser and bed, filling a large suitcase with socks and boxers and T-shirts, trousers and toiletries and paperback crime novels.

Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it.

But Nick wasn’t just making sure Daniel would sit it out. There was no television at the retreat in Poppi, no radio, no newspapers. No contact whatsoever with the outside world. However this thing with his uncle played out, Nick was making sure Daniel would miss it entirely.

Was that God’s will?

Whatever’s happening here, it’s happening to your uncle. God doesn’t make coincidences that big. No way He’d want you to sit it out.

Was Nick even thinking about God’s will? Or was protecting the “One True Church” from a Protestant/Holy Roller/con artist, the trump card?

Or was that just Trinity talking, inside Daniel’s head?

He snapped the suitcase shut, sat heavily beside it on the bed. The framed photo on the dresser caught his eye, and he picked it up. Eighteen-year-old Daniel Byrne, freshly minted New Orleans Golden Gloves Welterweight Champion.

Julia had been in the stands when Daniel won the trophy. She didn’t like him fighting, couldn’t stand to see him get hit, but promised if he made the finals, she’d be there. And she was true to her word.

Tim Trinity was also there, standing in the back row, drinking beer from a plastic New Orleans Saints go-cup, cheering louder than anybody, cheering: Danny, Danny, Danny!

Daniel had refused to even acknowledge his existence, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him play proud papa. Instead he used Trinity’s presence to fuel his anger, and scored a knockout when he shattered the other boy’s nose thirty-three seconds into the first round.

Now he looked at the kid he was, holding the trophy over his head and grinning for the camera. Grinning like he was the happiest kid in the world.

You might’ve fooled everyone else, but you didn’t fool me…

He put the photo back on the dresser, picked up a roll of white Title boxing tape and his gloves. God, he wanted to punch something. But he didn’t put them on, just dropped them in his carry-on.

Maybe they’d let him set up a heavy bag at the retreat.

Call it aggression therapy.

A black car idled at the curb in front of Daniel’s apartment building. George leaned against it, smoking.

Daniel stepped out into the morning light, dropped his suitcase, and put on his sunglasses. “I know the way to the airport.”

“Father Nick asked me to travel with you today, look after whatever needs you might have along the way.” George didn’t put any effort into selling the line. There was no use pretending; they both knew it was bullshit.

“He thinks I’m gonna go AWOL?”

George shrugged. “Quit yer whining, Bono, this is as awkward for me as it is for you.” Then he let out a cruel grin. “Well, maybe not.”

“Screw you, George.” Daniel hoisted his bag. “Pop the trunk.”

So this was how far Nick’s confidence had fallen. He’d never made a secret of the fact that Daniel was favorite son among his investigators. Heir apparent.

Now he didn’t even trust Daniel to get on a plane.

I just can’t risk it…

Daniel stewed and George gloated, both in silence, all the way to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, where George led the way through Terminal B, to the Alitalia check-in counter. They checked Daniel’s suitcase and picked up their tickets to Florence.

They don’t send you to purgatory on a private jet.

With time to kill, they found a business travelers’ lounge, grabbed some coffee and croissants, and settled in a quiet corner, where a television displayed a scrolling stock ticker.

George snatched up the remote, aimed it at the television. “I’ll get a news channel, give you one final chance to watch your uncle.”

One final chance. What a prick.

“I don’t want to see it,” Daniel said. He stood up. “I’m gonna check the board, see if we’re on schedule.”

George also stood. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonesome.” They crossed the lounge to the bank of flight information monitors.

Daniel scanned down the departures list, past the Alitalia flight, his eyes stopping on any commercial flights to Atlanta.

The next flight departed in seventy-five minutes.

Virgin Airlines.

Very funny, God. That’s a good one.

The cut-off time for check-in was fifteen minutes away.

Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out…

Daniel watched his reflection in the monitor. Thinking: Just get on the damn plane and do your time in Poppi. Don’t throw your life away.

They returned to the table, and this time Daniel got the remote first. He flipped channels, stopped on ESPN. Sportscenter was showing highlights of a thoroughbred race.

The announcer was saying, “…a shocker at Aqueduct, as Mr. Smitten—a fifty-to-one underdog—comes steaming around the final curve and passes the entire field to win the Gotham Stakes, finishing eight-and-a-half lengths ahead of Executive Council, with Sweet Revenge showing in third…”

The race Trinity had predicted, ending exactly as he predicted it.

Daniel’s heart pounded, his head swam, and beads of cold sweat broke out on his upper lip.

That Trinity had nailed it was no surprise, not after everything Daniel had seen in the last week. What shook him was that they’d just come in here on a whim, he’d flipped channels blindly, and landed right on this story.

Was this God’s will?

If God transformed Saul, the violent persecutor of early Christians, into the Apostle Paul—Saint Paul—the main architect of Christianity as we know it, might He not similarly choose a modern sinner against Christ to carry his message today? Trinity was many miles from being a man of God, but his sins paled when compared to Saul’s.

We’re supposed to believe there is no sin so great, no sinner so wicked…No one is beyond redemption through the mercy of God.

Maybe that was the point.

Nick refused to even discuss the possibility. But Nick hadn’t been there.

Ignoring George, Daniel grabbed his carry-on bag and stalked toward the men’s room. He burst through the door, headed to the sinks, dropped his bag on the white tile floor, braced his hands on the counter, and breathed long and deep.

George came in after him, stopped, and said, “What the fucking hell is wrong with you?”

“Anxiety attack,” said Daniel between breaths.

George snorted. “Anxiety, is it? Well now, aren’t we precious?” He unzipped and used the urinal, zipped up, and came to the sink next to Daniel, held his hands under the automatic tap.

Daniel straightened up slowly, stretched his hands over his head, breathed, said, “Sorry, I think I’m OK now,” and brought his arms down with full force, slamming George’s forehead into the faucet.

“Fuck!” George jerked upright and Daniel silenced him with a flurry of fists to the solar plexus, pounding the