The Trinity Game

of earth from the property of Trinity’s old mansion in Lakeview.
    Daniel scanned the block as they got out of the car. Lights burned behind the windows of some houses, but the street was empty, save for Daniel and Trinity. All the other homes had been restored to their pre-Katrina splendor, but Trinity’s was in a state of mid-renovation, a Dumpster in the driveway and a small tractorparked in the dirt yard. They crossed the street, Trinity carrying a mason jar and Daniel resting his hand on the butt of his pistol, under his shirt.
    Daniel watched as his uncle wandered from one mound of dirt to another. He checked the street again—all clear—and filled his lungs with warm, moist air, perfumed by a large magnolia tree that had survived Katrina and still stood in the yard.
    Trinity came to a stop between two large mounds of dirt. “Which one?” he said.
    “I don’t think it matters, Tim.”
    “Yeah, I guess not.” Trinity bent down, scooped some dirt into the mason jar. “Think that’s a cup?”
    “Just fill it. She can measure out a cup later.” Headlights swept around the corner as a car turned onto the street, heading in their direction.
Damn.
Daniel pulled the gun from his waistband but kept it under the shirt. “Hurry up.”
    Trinity straightened up and screwed the lid on the now-full jar. “Got it.”
    The car was just four houses away, slowing as it approached. They couldn’t cross the street unseen, and with the headlights, Daniel couldn’t tell how many were in the car.
    He pointed and said, “Take cover,” and brought the gun out as they ducked behind the Dumpster.
    He took a deep breath and blew it out, getting his heart rate down. He peeked around the corner. The car was now two houses away, slowing to a crawl. Then a turn signal flashed, and the car turned up the neighboring driveway and out of sight.
    He pulled back and listened. The engine stopped, two doors opened, and two people stepped onto the driveway and both doors slammed shut.
    A man’s angry voice said, “Well maybe we could stay longer if you didn’t drink so damn much.”
    A woman slurred a response. “Yeah, well maybe I wouldn’t drink so much if you didn’t hit on every woman in the fucking room.”
    “And maybe if you didn’t drink so fucking much, I’d be hitting on
you
. Ever think of that?”
    “Jesus Christ, you really are a bastard.”
    “That’s just the Andersens,” Trinity whispered. “They been having that same conversation for ten years.”
    Daniel tucked the gun away as the Andersens quarreled their way up the steps and into the house. When the front door slammed shut, he nodded at Trinity and they strode back to the car and got in.
    As Daniel cranked the engine to life, he noticed Trinity staring back at the mansion with a haunted look on his face. “What’s wrong?”
    “Just remembering,” said Trinity. “Remembering the man I was. And you know what? I’m ashamed.”

C onrad Winter pulled to a stop outside an unremarkable Catholic church in an unremarkable suburb just west of New Orleans. He’d left Father Doug in the Sazerac Bar back at the Roosevelt and come alone for this.
    The parish priest here, Father Peter, had called the regional HQ with a lead, of sorts. Some young man had arrived in a state of severe psychological and spiritual distress, babbling about Reverend Tim Trinity and begging for guidance.
    Probably not much of a lead, but perhaps an opportunity just the same. The young man sounded like a lost sheep, and lost sheep can be useful in the right situation. Throughout history, the men competing to shape the future had collected lost sheep to use as pawns in their game, cannon fodder in their wars. Conrad knew he was one of those men, in this age. He was in the game, a shaper of the future, and this particular lost sheep might be just what he needed.
    As he locked the car and walked up the path to the church, Conrad congratulated himself on how well he’d played his hand. When he learned that Trinity and Daniel had survived the bombing at the TV studio, he’d guessed they would return home like salmon swimming upriver to spawn. Whoever planted that bomb had done Conrad a huge favor, and he’d immediately spotted the best play.
    He’d called Cardinal Allodi, and Allodi had quietly come to New Orleans while sending Nick to the command center in Atlanta, where Nick could lead the official operation, unaware that he’d actually been removed from the game.
    It was