seconds.”
Hillborn’s conversation became visibly more animated after Julia and Shooter arrived. Finally he tossed the radio mic on the seat, got out of the car, and crooked his finger at Daniel.
“Good luck,” said Julia.
Daniel walked through the thick, muggy air, careful not to rush, past assorted FBI agents, all the way to Hillborn. Along the way he flipped the switch, putting his walkie-talkie into transmit mode for Pat to listen in.
Hillborn said, “The FBI’s position is as follows: Considering the bombing at his church in Atlanta, we strenuously advise Reverend Trinity against any public appearances at this time. We believe that he is acting with reckless disregard for his own life, and we are not equipped to provide for his safety. If he chooses to go forward, we will not stop him, but neither can we protect him. The only assistance we can reasonably provide is to help divert traffic ahead of the parade route.”
“Reverend Trinity certainly appreciates the help,” said Daniel with a smile.
Hillborn signaled to the other agents, and the drawbridge bells clanged and the bridge started coming back down as the agents returned to their cars. He let out a derisive snort. “Understand: you haven’t won anything at all. If by some miracle he’s still alive when this day is over, you’re both going to prison. I promise.”
Daniel shrugged. “And I promised I’d get him to the podium. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“We’ll see.”
Daniel flipped the walkie-talkie off transmit as he walked back toward the front of the crowd, looking for Pat’s green bowler hat. Pat’s voice crackled in his ear. “Nice job with the feds. Meet me in front.”
Daniel wiped the sweat from his brow and walked closer as the green hat appeared in the crowd, bobbing forward. They came together at the front line and Pat said, “Full props to the man with the cockamamie plan.”
“Thank you.”
“Now shake it off and get your energy back up.” He broke eye contact and scanned the crowd behind Daniel. “Drapeau is still out here somewhere. We don’t find him before we get to the podium, Tim dies.”
As the feds disappeared over the bridge, a trumpet blared and a huge cheer erupted from the crowd. Tim Trinity emerged from the protection of the throng to lead them forward, the brass band launched into “Didn’t He Ramble,” and the party resumed.
After the call came in from Conrad Winter, Father Nick had no choice but to pull the plug on the operation. He summoned all of Conrad’s men back to the command center, canceled any further investigation, and ordered all Trinity files wiped from the hard drives.
He thanked the young men working the command center for their efforts, sent upstairs for a few bottles of good brandy, and made sure everyone who wanted a drink had one.
Then he sat back with his snifter and watched CNN.
As far as the Vatican was concerned, the Trinity game was over. It was time to cut their losses. To Nick, the most painful loss was Daniel Byrne. A good man, gone.
A good man, gone wrong.
Nick told himself to stop speculating about how it all happened. No doubt Conrad was truthful about presenting his amnesty offer to Daniel. Nick had successfully sold Cardinal Allodi on the idea, and no way Conrad would disobey a direct order from Allodi. Anyway, Conrad was returning to Atlanta on a one thirty flight from New Orleans, and he would hear all the details soon enough.
Conrad had told Nick that Daniel turned him down flat. Whatever the details, they wouldn’t change that basic fact. Nick would just have to accept it and move on.
He sipped some brandy and focused his attention on the television screen. An aerial view of well over a thousand people walking down the middle of a wide street, through an intersection and past a large building that seemed an impossibly bright shade of pink. Then the screen changed to a ground-level view from a handheld camera moving with the crowd.
And there was Reverend Tim Trinity, wearing his shiny silk suit, waving his famous blue Bible, flashing his perfect fake teeth, leading a parade of uneducated misfits, drunks, and hippies, dancing and singing through the streets like it was Mardi Gras day.
It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic.
Tim Trinity, tent revival Holy Roller, charismatic faith healer, cable TV prosperity preacher…master con man. P.T. Barnum for the new age.
And, undeniably, some kind of prophet. But there was no way to know what kind, and the risk was too great, and so he would be stopped. If the Nevada mob didn’t get him, the FBI surely would. Trinity’s voices, whatever their origin, would not be allowed to change the world, when nobody who mattered really wanted the world changed. On that, you could bet the farm. It was all over but for the gnashing of teeth.
The camera stopped moving and focused on Julia Rothman, the ex-girlfriend reporter Daniel had brought into this case, thereby setting in motion the chain of events that led to this…disaster. Rothman cupped a hand over one ear and raised her voice to speak over the sound of a brass band marching by behind her.
Nick picked up the remote and turned up the volume.
“…just past Elysian Fields, and it’s hard to estimate the size of the crowd, but it is definitely growing more rapidly now, and as you can see, the atmosphere is very lively. Impromptu street parades are part of the fabric of daily life in the Crescent City, and most of the people behind me are not religious followers of Reverend Tim Trinity but local residents, simply come out to pass a good time...”
As if to prove her point, a couple of drag queens paused behind her, vamping and blowing kisses at the camera before dancing off with the rest of the crowd.
“The real test will come when we reach Esplanade, where a much larger crowd awaits. I’m told the crowd assembled there numbers over ten thousand, packing Rampart Street all the way back to Louis Armstrong Park, but the National Guard is blocking the street, refusing to let them move forward…”
William Lamech muted the television and dialed room service.
“Yes, send up a cup of turtle soup, two dozen oysters on the half shell, and a bottle of…” he scanned the wine list, “Bollinger R.D., 1990. Thank you.”
Let the rock stars have their Cristal, Lamech thought as he brought the television’s volume back up. When the second-best is truly excellent, the key factor to consider becomes best
It’s a funny old world; if you live long enough, you’ll see things you could never have imagined. He remembered that sunny day three weeks ago, when he first brought the news of Tim Trinity’s predictions to his colleagues and had to convince them that it wasn’t a joke. If you’d told him then that it would cost five million dollars to end Trinity’s life, he’d have laughed you right out of Nevada. And if you’d told him that, in just three weeks, “Reverend Tim” would lead a march of over ten thousand people through the streets of New Orleans, carried on live television around the globe, he’d have thought you completely insane.
A lot can change in three weeks, and by God, had it ever.
And considering what Trinity had become in that brief time, five million dollars was very good value indeed.
