through his mouth, sobs wracking his entire body. A hippie cowboy who looked like Kris Kristofferson and the teenage hooker rushed to his aid.
Andrew continued walking through the wreckage of the tent city. Probably a quarter of the crowd had already deserted, and it looked like another quarter was making moves to pack up.
He saw a guy he knew slightly, coming his way. They’d met two days ago, standing in line for a port-a-potty. The lines were over an hour long, and the guy was a talker. But now Andrew couldn’t recall anything he’d said.
“Andrew,” the guy said. “Dandelion, remember?”
“Right, yes, of course.” Now he remembered. Dandelion was from Canada. His mother was full-blood Mohawk, his father a Jewish radical, some kind of environmental activist. Dandelion grew up in a place called Hamilton, which he said was like Canada’s Pittsburgh. Spent summers with his grandma on an Indian reservation. He’d shown Andrew some kind of First Nations ID card and said he didn’t have to pay taxes on cigarettes back home because he was an Indian.
“New Orleans,” said Dandelion. “Everybody says that’s where he’s going.”
Andrew nodded.
“I hooked up with some cool guys, we’re heading straight there.”
“You still believe in him, Dandelion?”
“Never did. But I didn’t
“Yes. I’m all right.”
“Groovy. Well, I gotta run catch my ride. We’ll be camping in Louis Armstrong Park. If you wanna hang with us, just look for the tent with the big yellow smiley face.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Thanks, maybe I’ll see you there.”
Andrew turned without saying good-bye and wandered away, allowed himself to be drawn into the stream of people heading toward the street, like fans leaving the ballgame in the sixth inning of a blowout, each quietly carrying a piece of the team’s shame, made heavier by the shame of the apostate.
He walked the seven blocks to his truck, and stopped short. What he saw made him sick.
The blue tarpaulin was gone. All his possessions, everything that had been secured under the blue tarpaulin, gone. The gas cap had been pried open and the gas siphoned out, a length of dirty garden hose left hanging from the gas tank like a dead snake.
Julia glanced down at the business cards in her hand: FBI Special Agents Steven Hillborn (the handsome one with the square jaw) and Gary Robertson (the intimidating one with the ice-blue eyes). To Agent Hillborn, she said, “Like everyone else in the world, I’m betting he’s on the way to New Orleans. In fact, I’m flying there with my cameraman tonight. But it’s only a guess. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“You broke the story. You’ve had inside information since the beginning,” said Agent Hillborn. “And you’ve been in contact with him.”
Ignoring the first part of his statement, Julia said, “Tim Trinity contacted me on Saturday afternoon. I’d left several messages with his staff, requesting an interview. He called me back and we spoke for about two minutes. He didn’t agree to sit down with me, but said he’d consider it and get back to me. And that is the only time I’ve ever spoken with him.” Every word was true…she just left Daniel out of it.
“You’re not a lawyer, Ms. Rothman,” said Hillborn, “so do us a favor and stop parsing language. Frankly, you suck at it. Trinity is in way over his head on this thing. We understand he’s running scared—who wouldn’t be?—but he can’t outrun it, and he definitely can’t outrun us. If he comes in to us, helps us, we can talk to the US Marshals about getting him into the WITSEC program. We’re his best option for survival, I’m sure you can see that.”
“I do see that,” said Julia, “and I hope he takes you up on it. I’d be happy to put you on camera, help you get the offer out to him.”
Special Agent Robertson slapped the table with his right palm. “Hey, Cleopatra. Wake up. We’ve got over 140 dead bodies. Two explosions inside a week—one at a site designated critical to national security—while our nation is at war. And you are now officially wasting our time.”
Special Agent Hillborn reached inside a leather folio, pulled out a photo, and slid it across the table: Daniel and Trinity leaving the stage at the tent revival in Greenville. Hillborn pointed at the photo, stabbing Daniel with his finger. “You used your MasterCard to wire five hundred dollars to a Western Union in Gadsden, Arkansas.”
Julia’s indignation was blunted by the awareness that she was, in fact, obstructing the FBI in what was a clearly justified investigation. She felt her moral ground turning to quicksand. Better to focus on the indignation. “You’re looking at my credit card records? May I please see the warrant?”
“Don’t need one,” said Agent Robertson. “If that bothers you, call your congressman and tell him to repeal the Patriot Act. Then listen to him laugh.”
“The distance from Gadsden to Greenville,” said Agent Hillborn, “is 173 miles. The money was picked up at ten fifteen a.m. by a Mr. Daniel Byrne. Trinity showed up, with this man, at the tent revival in Greenville just under four hours later.” He shrugged. “Maybe they stopped for a sandwich.” He pushed the photo closer and spoke with exaggerated calm. “We are done fucking around, Julia. You have two choices: Continue to obstruct our investigation, in which case tomorrow will find you not in New Orleans covering the biggest story of your life, but in a jail cell while your lawyer begs a federal judge for a bail hearing sometime in the next week.” He handed Julia a printout of her own cell phone records. “Your other choice: Tell us what you know about Daniel Byrne and his business with Tim Trinity.”
“It’s Julia.”
“’Course it is.” Daniel reached over and switched the radio off. “You’re the only one with my number.”
There was a pause on the line before Julia said, “I’m sorry.”
“Who?”
“A couple of FBI agents, they leaned on me pretty hard. I couldn’t legally refuse them…and anyway, they need to investigate this. I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“It’s OK, Julia.”
“They had my cell records, they could be listening in on my calls, so I ran to a payphone as soon as they left.”
“What did they say?”
“They think Trinity’s gotten himself mixed up with some very bad people, and they’re offering to get him into witness protection if he cooperates. They knew about the money I wired you, and they asked about your role in all this. I told them the basics: You’re a Catholic priest sent by the Vatican to investigate, and you told me how to decode the tongues. I gave them your number, so—”
“So they’ll use my cell as a tracker and probably listen to my calls until they catch up with us.”
“Danny, they want you to turn yourselves in for questioning. The longer you run, the worse it’s gonna look. Think about it. At least they could keep you safe. And if Trinity is innocent, then why—”
“We’ve already been on the phone too long,” said Daniel. “I won’t answer this number again, and I’m not gonna call your cell.”
“How will I—”
“Remember our first date?”
“What?”
“Our first date, the first time we went out alone. Remember where we met?”
