The Trinity Game

Abita. “Look, Daniel, I’m sure you’re trying to do what you think is best, but your good intentions are going to get your uncle killed. You too, in all likelihood. You’re a smartguy, you must be able to see the truth of that.
Twenty
professional bodyguards couldn’t keep him alive at a public rally. Face it: you can’t protect him. We can.”
    Daniel couldn’t think of anything to say, so he took a long pull from his bottle and waited for the pitch he knew was coming.
    It came. “You can still save your uncle,” said Hillborn, “by convincing him to turn himself over to us. We’re offering a way out.”
    “And what happens to him?” said Daniel.
    “Well, after we debrief him, he’ll get a new name, a new identity. The US Marshals will protect him, set him up in a new location. We’ll let him keep enough of his fraudulently earned wealth that he’ll be able to live out the rest of his life in the lap of luxury. Best of everything. Of course he’ll never preach again, never get anywhere near a television camera, he’ll have to stay completely under radar.” Hillborn smiled. “But he will get to live.”
    Daniel shook his head. “He won’t take that deal. See, the thing you guys don’t understand…he’s not running a con. I know, I know,” he held up a hand, “I felt the same way not so long ago. But he sincerely believes that God is using him to bring something important into the world, and for what it’s worth, I’ve also come to believe it. Regardless, he fully understands the risks and he’d rather die than turn his back on his obligation to see it through. I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to wait and talk to him after the speech.”
    “If he’s still alive.”
    “Yes.”
    Hillborn and Robertson exchanged a look.
    Agent Robertson fixed Daniel with a piercing stare and said, “Special Agent Hillborn has shown you the carrot. I’ll show you the stick: Tim Trinity was involved in the deadly bombing of an oil refinery and the rigging of the Georgia State Lottery, and that’sjust in the last week. We will prosecute him in federal court and he will spend the rest of his life in a Supermax prison in the middle of Bumfuck, Minnesota, where he will be confined to an eight-by-eight windowless cell, all alone, twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day, every day, for the rest of his life.”
    “He had no part in the refinery accident, or the lottery. None. He’ll beat it in court.”
    “Don’t be dense,” snapped Robertson. “Trinity stood in front of the cameras in Arkansas and freely admitted to being a con artist for the last forty years. He’s been running a massive fraud scheme to the tune of millions. He will be convicted of multiple felonies, and he
will
go to prison. We’ll see to it. And he will never come out again. Ever. That’s the stick. If I were you, I’d take the carrot.”
    “In case you haven’t been watching the news,” said Agent Hillborn, “Atlanta is in tatters. At last count, 167 dead bodies in the parks and on the streets, well over a thousand assaults, 323 rapes and God knows how many more unreported, property damage in the tens of millions. So far. Next year’s budget for schools and homeless shelters, wiped out. And you think God wants Tim Trinity to bring all that to New Orleans?” He shook his head. “Hasn’t this place seen enough tragedy? Bottom line: your uncle is a walking public disturbance, and we are not having it any longer.”
    “Senator Guyot said—”
    “Senator Guyot wants to be president, he can say whatever he likes. I’m telling you: Tim Trinity will not be making any more public speeches, tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year.” He put a business card on the table. “I could arrest you right now, Daniel, but that wouldn’t save your uncle, and more importantly, it wouldn’t save New Orleans.” He drank the last of his beer.“Think about what we’ve said, and take our offer to him.” He stood up. “If we don’t hear from you by midnight, the carrot goes away and all he gets is the stick.”

    They sat in silence for a few minutes after the FBI agents left. Finally Pat said, “I’d bet dollars to donuts there’s now a GPS tracker on our car, courtesy of our new friends from the Justice Department. I’ll drop you at a bus stop, dump the car in a lot somewhere, and we’ll meet back at the ranch later.”
    “OK.” Daniel drank some beer and they sat in silence some more. The silence was growing