The Trinity Game

antique oriental rug covering the floor. A mix of folk art and fine oil canvases, all depicting religious imagery—some Voodoo, some Catholic. In one corner, an altar. On the altar, burning candles and joss sticks shared space with various fetishes. An egg in a bowl of cornmeal…a black chicken’s foot hanging on a leather string…three oranges… an open bottle of Barbancourt rum…a corncob pipe…a scattering of divination shells…a Saint John the Conqueror root…a small bottle of Florida Water cologne…the skull of a baby alligator. The altar was backed by a framed mirror and a carved mahogany crucifix.

Ory stood at the counter of the kitchenette along one wall. Her back was to Daniel.

“Are you OK?”

She turned to face him, a small sherry glass in her hand. She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m being very rude,” gesturing to the couch. “Please, come in, and bring your friend. May I offer you a glass of port?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Trinity. “Thank you, that would be very nice.” He passed Daniel and sat on the couch.

Ory’s eyes never left Daniel’s face. She seemed to be cataloging his features. “It’s Daniel, isn’t it?”

“How did you—”

“You won’t believe me,” she said.

“I will,” said Trinity.

Ory’s hand trembled slightly as she refilled her sherry glass and poured two more. “I dreamed of you last night, Daniel,” she said. “And I woke up with your name on my lips. I know, it must sound crazy…”

Daniel felt lightheaded. He said, “In this dream, did I say anything? Did we speak?”

Ory nodded. “You walked into the shop and called me by name. You said, ‘Angelica, I need you to understand, we’re on this road together,’ and I said something like, ‘What road?’ and ‘Who are you?’ but you just smiled, and then you turned and left the shop. And I woke up. That’s it.” She stared at him for a few seconds. “It’s truly incredible, you look exactly like you did in the dream.”

Tennessee Williams Suite – Hotel Monteleone…

William Lamech had sent the men on a kill mission, with strict instructions to report every three hours. The last text from Samson Turner had come just before dawn: STAGE 2 UNDERWAY. They’d located the truck and were moving in for the kill.

Not a word since. Lamech glanced at his watch. They’d now missed three scheduled reports. If they’d been arrested, he’d have heard about it. If the mission had gone wrong and any one of them had survived, he’d have gotten a report.

Lamech didn’t get this far in life by lying to himself, and he wasn’t going to start now. The men were dead.

He scrolled through the contacts in his cell phone and stopped at the direct line of Eric Murphy, Esq. Murphy was a senior partner at a blueblood Canadian law firm with offices in the historic district of Old Montreal and at least one former prime minister on the payroll. Lamech had been paying the firm half a million dollars per year for the last five years. The invoices read legal consulting, but that was a fiction. In truth, the money was just a retainer. It bought him access, should he ever need it, to the services of a man named Lucien Drapeau. The only way to contact Drapeau was through Eric Murphy, and keeping that conduit open was worth $500K a year. If you actually used Drapeau, it cost you an additional five million.

Lucien Drapeau was the most expensive assassin in the western hemisphere. It was said that he’d never botched an assignment.

But William Lamech was not disturbed by either the price or the possibility of failure. He was disturbed— deeply disturbed—by Drapeau’s complete independence. Drapeau was a specter. The law firm’s clients didn’t know where he lived or what he looked like or how he traveled. Terms were simple: half up front, half upon death of the target. No meetings, no details, and no future promises. You could pay him five million to kill a guy, and when the job was done, he was free to take five million from the guy’s widow to come back and kill you. The half-a-mil you paid to the firm each year bought you a place on the client list, but it didn’t buy you Drapeau’s loyalty.

William Lamech didn’t like it, but the men he’d sent were capable professionals, and they were dead.

Now he would use the specter.

When Tim Trinity took off his hat and sunglasses, Priestess Ory immediately recognized him. She sat in stunned silence as he told her of his dream, and how he awoke with the vision of her storefront.

He summed up with, “So I had a vision of you, and you had a vision of Daniel. I think it’s safe to conclude that God has brought us three together. The question is, why?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “I’m still trying to process the thing.”

“Danny? Any ideas?”

Daniel was still stuck on God has brought us three together. She had dreamed of him, not of Trinity. And with that, his place at Trinity’s side was no longer a leap of faith.

He was supposed to be here.

But that didn’t answer the question. Why here? And why her? He looked from Ory to Trinity, shook his head. “Priestess Ory, do you know anyone who goes by Papa Legba?”

“Papa Legba is the guardian of the crossroads.”

“I don’t mean the loa. I mean, a person using it as a nickname.”

“Of course not. It would be very disrespectful, and,” she smiled, “nobody wants to get on Papa Legba’s bad side. Legba can be temperamental, and you’ll get nothing done without him.”

Daniel turned to Trinity. “Well, I’m out of ideas. I don’t know why the hell we’re here.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Priestess Ory said, “Following Tim’s line of thought: The divine brought you here. To me. Maybe the intent is for you to receive what it is that I provide.”

“Somehow I don’t think he brought Tim here for a tarot reading,” said Daniel.

Ory shot him a stern look. “Yes, I sell trinkets to tourists. I fail to see how that’s different than the thousands of plastic-Jesus gift shops in cathedrals around the world.”

“She’s got you there, son,” said Trinity.

“I apologize,” said Daniel. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“Yes you did,” her tone still sharp. “I see how you got the wrong impression, but once you get past the gift shop, this really is a house of worship. We hold weekly services in the courtyard out back, and once a month we have a larger ceremony at my sister’s house. For the record, I take my religion seriously.”

“Priestess Ory, I believe you. Truce, OK? Friends?”

She smiled, regaining her poise. “All right. But my friends call me Mama Anne.”

Trinity said, “Let’s say God does want me to receive what you provide, Mama Anne. What does that look like? You gonna slaughter a chicken over my head or—not judging—I just want to know what I’m lettin’ myself in for…”

Priestess Ory laughed. “I’m a vegetarian. In my ounfo, my congregation, all our sacrifices are mange sec.”

“Dry meal?”

“Yes. It means that our offerings to the loa are without blood.”

Daniel pointed to the altar. “Tell that to the rooster who left his foot over there.” He meant it with good humor, and she didn’t seem to take offense.