expansive bedroom, his movements now beyond twitchy, heading toward spastic.
He yanked open the bedside table’s drawer, reached behind the Gideon’s Bible and pulled out his Ziploc baggie of cocaine, convulsed his way back into the bathroom, and managed to get the baggie open. He poured the white powder out onto the smooth marble countertop and leaned forward.
Trinity straightened and looked into the mirror, and his reflected self looked back at him. The bloodshot eyes of his reflected self held an intensity he’d never seen, and he couldn’t look away.
An idea rose to the surface of his conscious mind, taking on shape and texture and weight as it came into focus, like a long-forgotten memory that, once remembered, could never be forgotten again.
The idea gave him an instant joy, but he fully understood what it demanded and the joy quickly gave way to abject fear. A wave of regret washed over him. He wanted to take it back, to
End them now, and maybe forever.
Summoning every ounce of his bullheaded will, and before he could change his mind, he swept the cocaine into the sink, spun the tap, and flushed it down the drain, fear growing into terror, heart pounding in his chest. He looked back at his reflected self.
But saying it only increased his panic, and his stomach began roiling.
He threw up in the sink. It purged the fear, not a lot, but maybe just enough. He washed his mouth out with tap water, looked back at himself in the mirror.
The next wave of muscle spasms hit.
Tim Trinity braced his hands against the countertop and held on against the coming storm.
“If you’re just tuning in,
William Lamech looked at the bespoke-suited men around the long glass table in the casino boardroom and zapped the television to silence. Zapped it to silence, but left it on. He wanted those images on the minds of these men, in this meeting.
Lamech turned to his bodyguard, standing in the doorway.
“Nobody gets in. No phone calls.”
“Yes, Mr. Lamech.”
The bodyguard left the room. Behind him, the door whispered shut.
Jared Case shuffled through the stack of spreadsheets and bank statements and tax returns, passed them along to the next man. “My forensic accounting guy tells me there’s plenty wrong here, gives us plenty of leverage. But it’s gonna be difficult to approach Trinity now, with the whole world watching.”
Pete DeFazio snorted. “I say we get these out to the media
“A grifter with a Bible, who predicts the future,” Case corrected.
Lamech locked eyes, unblinking, with Darwyn Jones.
Darwyn nodded, almost imperceptibly, swiveled his chair away to face the television screen. He spoke without turning back to the men. “Look at the television screen, gentlemen. Just look at it.” He sat for another second, turned back to the table. “Millions of Americans believe in him. His sermon tomorrow is going out live, all the major cable networks running the feed, also in the UK, Canada, and Mexico.”
“My sources tell me reporters are flying in from France, Germany, Australia, Spain, Brazil…every corner of the goddamn planet,” added Lamech. “This story is going worldwide in a matter of days.”
DeFazio lit a cigarette, said, “What if he does the backwards act tomorrow? For all we know, he could predict the Kentucky Fuckin’ Derby.”
“For all we know,” said Jared Case, “he could say gambling is a mortal sin. He could say Las Vegas is an instrument of Satan.” Case gestured out the window, where the Las Vegas Strip glittered in the pale red light of dawn. “He could call for the Strip to go dark. And the people will listen. He could kill us with one word.”
“My point exactly,” said Darwyn Jones with a switchblade smile.
Michael Passarelli cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be the one to raise this, but we’re talking about killing a man who, well…I’m not saying he’s Christ, just that
William Lamech sipped some Perrier. “Michael, if the preacher has anything to do with God, every man in this room can plan on spending eternity without need of an overcoat. The
“And we don’t know how long it’ll take the press to expose him, even if we do feed them his financials,” added Darwyn Jones. “Looks like they’re having a good time with the whole Messiah story, maybe they’re not in a hurry to show him as a grifter.”
Lamech stood, addressed the whole table. “Obviously Darwyn and I have concluded that we need to kill Trinity, without delay. And I think Jared may be on board.”
Jared Case nodded. “I’m sold. I say we off the motherfucker.”
“So we vote,” Lamech continued. “If we are to be Trinity’s jury, we should be unanimous. This is, after all, a death sentence. If there’s a split vote, we talk it around some more.” He raised his right hand. “All those in favor of ending it now.”
Darwyn Jones and Jared Case raised their hands, followed by DeFazio, Babcock, Reaves…all around the table, all the way to Passarelli.
Unanimous.
It wasn’t every day Father Nick entertained cardinals, but there was one in his office now—and for all the wrong reasons.
“How injured, exactly, is your secretary?” said Cardinal Allodi.
“Slight concussion, four stitches, and a bruised ego,” said Father Nick.
“You find this situation funny?”
It made Nick feel like a kid called to the principal’s office. “No, Eminence. I don’t. Just listing George’s injuries, as you asked.”
