The Trinity Game

Reverend Trinity to hold his rally the following day as originally planned. The front steps of Saint Louis Cathedral were private property, but a stage would be set up on the public sidewalk directly in front for Trinity’s use. The Louisiana National Guard was being mobilized to assist local and state authorities with crowd management. He said Reverend Trinity’s First Amendment rights were not negated by the fact that so many Americans wanted to hear him in person, and that the government’s goal was neither to restrict Trinity’s right to free speech nor the right of Americans to peacefully assemble, but simply to do everything possible to ensure public safety.
    “Uh-oh,” said Pat, looking over Daniel’s shoulder at the entrance of Vaughan’s Lounge. “We got trouble.”
    Daniel turned away from the television and toward the open doorway in time to see two athletic men in blue suits and short haircuts close the doors of an unmarked gray sedan. The men peered into the darkened bar.
    “They ain’t local yokels, neither,” Pat added, laying his hands on the table, open and relaxed. “These cats are the real deal. We don’t wanna put them on edge, man. Keep your hands visible.”
    Daniel lifted the hand that had fallen in his lap, now hyper-aware of the gun on his hip, for which he most certainly did not have a concealed carry permit.
    The taller man wore an expensive suit cut to help conceal his sidearm. The other man apparently didn’t give a shit if anyone knew he was carrying. The taller man made eye contact and nodded as they reached the table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Byrne.” He pulled out the chair next to Daniel and flashed his badge as he sat. “We’re from the FBI, I’m Special Agent Hillborn, and,” he gestured at the other man, “this is Special Agent Robertson. Perhaps your friend Ms. Rothman mentioned that we were eager to speak with you.” A smile, neither friendly nor menacing. Strictly professional. Hillborn turned to Pat. “And you are?”
    “Pat Wahlquist. I’m an executive protection specialist, under the employ of Mr. Byrne. If you’d like to see my papers, I’ll have to reach into my back pocket.”
    Hillborn waved it off. “I believe you.” Back to Daniel. “We’re investigating the bombing at your uncle’s church in Atlanta.” He signaled to the bartender, “Two Abitas here, and whatever these men are drinking.” Back to Daniel. “Funny thing, Ms. Rothman neglected to tell us that Trinity is your uncle. Must’ve slipped her mind. But I spoke at length with a representative of the Vatican who was very helpful. He said that you seem to have walked off the job, said you are no longer operating under the direction or authority of the Holy See.”
    “That’s correct,” said Daniel.
    The bartender deposited their drinks on the table and Hillborn dropped a twenty on the bartender’s tray and waved him away. He took a swig of beer. “You understand, then, that you no longer have diplomatic immunity.”
    “I’m an American citizen in the process of moving back to my hometown.” The gun was growing itchy against his side. “I’m not involved in criminal activity. I have no need for immunity, diplomatic or otherwise.”
    “If you’re keeping us from meeting with Reverend Trinity—”
    “I’m not,” said Daniel. “The whole world knows where he’s going to be.” He gestured at the television over the bar, “And he’ll be happy to meet with you after his public address tomorrow.”
    “Mr. Byrne. The bombing at your uncle’s church was a very professional operation, and the people behind it are not lacking in resources. Do you really think, after going to all that effort, they’ll just shrug their shoulders and forget all about it?”
    Images from the bayou flashed in Daniel’s mind…The man lighting a cigarette by the Suburban in front of Pat’s house, the other man jerking against the window bars as electricity fried his body, the fine mist of blood that hung in the air where Samson Turner’s head had been a second earlier…
    Hillborn turned to Pat. “Let’s hear your opinion, Mr. Wahlquist. As an
executive protection specialist
, I mean. How do you estimate your chances of keeping Reverend Trinity alive tomorrow?”
    “Our chances? I honestly don’t like them a whole bunch,” said Pat. He sipped his root beer and looked straight at Daniel.
    “Hire a professional, you should take his advice,” said Hillborn. He took another swig of