son.
“You’re just gonna wing it? That’s your plan?”
“Oh ye of little faith,” said Trinity. “I’m gonna stand up there on that stage, look into the camera, open my mouth wide, and invite God to talk.”
“A minute ago, you were petrified.”
Trinity swallowed the rest of his drink. “Still am. But I’m choosing to put my trust in the Big Guy. Otherwise, why bother getting up there at all?”
Daniel thought about it a long time, saying nothing, not quite successfully avoiding the thought that Tim Trinity’s faith was stronger than his own. He nodded, put down the glass.
“OK, Tim. We’ll leave it up to God. Get some sleep, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
As Daniel slipped the card key into the door, he felt the full weight of the last twenty-four hours. God, he was tired. He figured to be asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
He opened the door, stepped inside, flipped on the lights.
His carry-on bag was sitting open on the dresser. He’d left it closed, on the chair.
He crossed to the dresser and looked in the bag. The case file was gone. He ripped open the dresser’s top drawer. His laptop computer, also stolen. He walked to the closet, pulled the extra pillow off the shelf. The digital camera had been snatched as well.
In its place, there was a small note card. It read:
Daniel crumpled the card in his fist, threw the pillow against a wall, and swore. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and began a meticulous search of the room.
Nothing else was missing, but there wasn’t much else worth taking. He sat heavily on the bed. Between the case file and computer, Daniel had proof that the Vatican had been covering up the accuracy of Trinity’s predictions. That proof was now gone.
And Conrad had the camera. Had the photos of Trinity snorting cocaine in his den.
Daniel lay back, his head hitting the little chocolate on the pillow. He wondered if Conrad’s break-in was what PapaLegba had meant by
Despite his efforts to keep it at bay, paranoia descended upon him. He had no idea who this PapaLegba was, or who the thieves in the temple were, or where nearby the mortal danger lurked. But he now felt that PapaLegba, whoever he was, should be taken seriously.
He jumped to his feet, grabbed the card key off the dresser, and strode into the empty hallway. In the north stairwell, he found Chris at his post.
“Someone’s been in my room, and things are missing,” he said.
Chris pressed a button behind his lapel, said, “Robert, status check.” He put his finger to his ear, listened. Then, to Daniel, “No activity in the stairwells. Had to be someone with the elevator code. We’ll check the security video.”
Daniel already knew what the security video would show. But what would he do with it? Conrad was right; the Church had simply reclaimed her property, nothing taken had belonged to Daniel. “I’m more concerned about my uncle’s vulnerability,” he said.
“We’ll put a man on the elevator; no one will breach the floor again, I promise you.”
“OK.”
Chris put his hand on Daniel’s forearm. “Try to get some sleep, man. Seriously, you look exhausted.”
Tim Trinity lay in bed, sipping bourbon, watching a CNN documentary called
O’Brien was being fair—perhaps too fair—in her coverage. Then again, Trinity figured, she had to be careful not to appear disrespectful of religious belief, and false faith is hard to prove.
That’s what made preaching the perfect con. Of course, if he’d known thirty-nine years ago that there really was a God, he’d have chosen a different line of work, or at least a secular grift. He wondered now if God might someday punish him for his earlier sins.
He didn’t want to think about that, turned his attention back to the set. O’Brien was standing in front of Charity, which was fenced off and still hadn’t reopened after Katrina. “He wasn’t born Trinity, but Timothy Granger, right here in downtown New Orleans, at Charity Hospital. Born poor, to Claire Granger, wife of Fred Granger, a traveling salesman. Claire was descended from Irish indentured servants, but Fred Granger’s background is unknown, and with the loss of so many public records in Hurricane Katrina, mysteries will remain…”
A dozen family photographs, in plastic frames, hung on the walls of their cramped living room. Photographs of people the young Tim Granger had never met, some long dead, but all held a place of honor in the family home. Absent were his paternal grandfather and great-grandmother, and Tim’s dad explained it away, saying the old man took after his mama, never did like the camera, thought having his picture taken was akin to tempting the devil.
When Tim was ten years old, he found the photo while rummaging through a shoebox of memorabilia in his father’s closet. There was no question about who he was looking at. His grandfather looked much like his father, but the lips were a bit fuller, the nose slightly distended, and the hair—slicked back mercilessly—still showed kinky waves. Young Tim took the photo to his dad, who had just returned from another unsuccessful sales trip and was quietly drinking himself to sleep in the living room recliner.
With trembling hand, he held out the photograph. “This is my grandfather,” he said. His father slowly put the recliner upright, reached for the photo.
“You oughtn’t a been meddling in my things, son.” Then he gestured to a chair and let out a long sigh as the boy sat. “But I reckon you’re old enough to know.” He took a swallow of his drink and put it on the side table. “Your granddaddy was mulatto. His features favored his daddy, who was white Irish, but never quite enough so’s he could pass. He married a white woman, and they had one quadroon child. Me. When I was born, I came out lookin’ white as any baby. So they had a decision to make.” Tim’s dad looked like he might cry, but he took another swallow of his drink and it passed. “They kept my daddy’s name off the birth certificate, put down UNKNOWN for the father. They figured it would be better for me to be thought a bastard, better for my mother to be thought loose. Better for my father to be thought a cuckold. See, they were trying to give me the best start they could, and a white boy can do things and go places that ain’t possible for a black boy. Folks thought my daddy was a living saint for staying with the white woman who strayed and raisin’ up a white bastard as his own flesh and blood. When I was a little older, he let me know the truth but made me swear never to tell.” He cleared his throat. “And when I was grown I moved clear ’cross town, where folks didn’t know my family. See, nobody can look at your face and tell if you’re a
