They rode in silence a while, but this time it was an easier silence.
“She’s not married, is she?” said Trinity.
“Nope.”
“You think she’ll have you back?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “But I aim to find out.”
As the skyline of New Orleans grew large before them, Trinity said, “Been home since Katrina?”
Daniel shook his head. “You?”
“No.”
“You rode out the storm, huh?”
“Not my finest hour.” Trinity stared out the window. With the baseball cap and sunglasses, his face was unreadable, and Daniel decided not to press him for details. So many things had happened, in both their lives. So many years had flowed past. It wasn’t a matter of
Everything was different now.
Trinity pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “Christ, I got a headache…”
“I’ll stop and pick up some aspirin.”
“No, it’s—
The tongues were upon him.
On television, it had looked ridiculous. From the back row of the audience, disturbing. But up close it was a horror show. Chills ran up and down Daniel’s arms as he quickly exited the highway, tires squealing in protest on the off-ramp, Trinity babbling and thrashing beside him.
He screeched to a stop on the service road, threw the truck in park, and grabbed his uncle’s shoulders, struggling to hold him down and prevent further injury.
The next thirty seconds felt like they would never end. But then, finally, the tongues stopped and Trinity’s body relaxed and his eyes regained their focus.
“I’m OK, I’m all right…It’s over.” Trinity blew out a long breath and sat back upright. “Man, that one came on fast.” He wiped the beads of perspiration from his face and forced a smile.
“It looks painful,” said Daniel.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Trinity chuckled, lighting a new cigarette. “Yeah, it ain’t exactly a day at the beach.” He dragged on his smoke, shook his head. “It is what it is. Anyway, it’s over. Let’s go.”
“All right.” Daniel put the car in gear. He didn’t want to dwell on it either.
They were five of the nation’s top Christian evangelists, boasting congregations in the tens of thousands, highly rated television programs, bestselling books. One had even been a spiritual advisor to presidents.
They did not, however, all preach the same gospel. Three preached salvation and prosperity in equal measure (but they called it “abundance” and took pains to include the non-financial rewards of “abundant relationships” and “abundant health”). The other two had no interest in abundance of any sort. They preached that the End Times are upon us and the only thing that matters is getting right with Jesus in time to catch the Rapture and avoid being here for the living nightmare that will soon torment those left behind.
Despite their differences, they’d come together for a live roundtable discussion on television, to present a dire and urgent warning to the world:
That was the message. The case they were making to the world. They quoted a ton of scripture and carefully explained how each quote helped make the case. And they frequently returned to the warning, repeating it exactly the same, word for word, each time.
Andrew Thibodeaux sat at the Formica counter, absently stirring sugar into his eighth cup of coffee while starting at the television. He’d stopped at the Chevron next door to gas up, had almost fallen asleep standing at the pump, and realized how hungry he was when his eyes snapped open and the familiar yellow aluminum siding with the glossy black letters came into focus.
WAFFLE HOUSE
Two words that spelled
Andrew needed that assurance. Needed it badly.
But it wasn’t enough.
The End Times preachers on the television weren’t satisfied with warning everyone what Tim Trinity was
Pastor Billy Danforth made their case. “Please understand, I’m not saying that Tim Trinity is the Antichrist. I’m saying he
The waitress who smelled of old lady perfume stopped by to collect Andrew’s empty plates and said something about all the coffee he was drinking. He wasn’t listening, but she laughed and he realized she’d made some kind of joke, so he smiled at her and made a laughing sound before turning back to the television.
“…The prophecies in scripture provide characteristics of the Son of Perdition, and you can’t deny a good number describe Trinity. Does he not present himself as an apostle of Jesus while preaching a different Jesus? Does he not make war with the saints and seek to change God’s law? In his last televised sermon he said,
Andrew remembered to stop stirring his coffee, put the spoon down.
“…Does he not speak great things and tongues, and understand dark sentences, and does the whole world not wonder after him? Indeed, has he not deceived millions into thinking he is the returning Messiah?”
Andrew remembered to drink some coffee, noticed it was cold.
“The Antichrist shall rise up out of the water,” said the other End Times preacher, deftly taking the baton. “And this man’s career rose up to new heights from the floodwaters of Hurricane Katrina. And I find it ominous that we know absolutely nothing of Tim Granger—that’s his real name, I refuse to call him Trinity—we know nothing of Granger’s bloodline on his father’s side...”
Andrew Thibodeaux swallowed the rest of his coffee, signaled the waitress for a refill, and returned to the screen.
As they drove into the city, Daniel was struck by the number of rooftops still covered with blue tarpaulin,
