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The Trinity Game

The Trinity Game

Titel: The Trinity Game Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Sean Chercover
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key under the mat. Everything you need is waiting there. Just like we talked about. Remember, it must be at one thirty, not before.”
    He pulled away from the curb.
    “You are truly blessed, my son. You have God’s grace upon you, and your reward will be great in heaven.”
    He broke the connection and tossed the phone on the empty passenger seat, thinking:
ALEA IACTA EST.
    The die is cast.

D aniel sat in the passenger seat, staring at the photo of Lucien Drapeau he’d taped to the dashboard, committing every detail to memory, visualizing what that face would look like from different angles. He tried to listen as Trinity made small talk from behind and Pat bantered back from behind the wheel. He caught enough of it to toss a line in now and then and help keep the mood light for his uncle, but it was a struggle.
    Last night, with Julia, he’d seen the full promise of his future self. There was a life ahead, a life to be lived in the world, outside the authority of the Church, a relationship with God more directly felt, if less clearly defined. The life of a free man, and all the uncertainty and responsibility that comes with it.
    He wanted that life. He wanted the chance to discover what kind of man he could be in that new world.
    He’d found it all, just in time to risk it all.

    There was a crowd gathered under the blazing sun, on the boulevard’s neutral ground directly in front of the Ninth Ward Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church. About 120 people in all, young and old, drunk and sober, some in their Sunday best, somein dirty jeans and threadbare shirts, others dressed like they’d just dropped in from a voodoo ceremony.
    Daniel looked out at the crowd as Pat pulled to a stop at the curb and threw it in park. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but it was enough to start.
    Most impressive of all were the costumed Mardi Gras Indians—a riot of color, a blur of green and yellow and red and blue, pink and purple, glittering sequins and shiny beads—dancing and spinning through the crowd, making the children laugh, with huge feathered headdresses waving in the humid breeze.
    Tim Trinity hopped out of the back seat and Priestess Ory welcomed him with a hug and led him toward the crowd.
    Pat pulled the keys from the ignition. “Last chance to back out of this cockamamie plan.”
    Daniel watched the scene through the windshield. His uncle was dancing with a Mardi Gras Indian chief, making faces at two small boys who convulsed with laughter at the sight. “Don’t want to,” he said.
    “OK.” Pat grabbed his backpack and handed Daniel a walkie-talkie wired to an earpiece. He pointed at a button on the top. “Push to talk, flip the switch to lock it in talk mode if you need both hands.” Daniel clipped the unit to his belt on the opposite side of his gun and inserted the earpiece. Pat pressed the button on his own walkie-talkie. “Read me?”
    Daniel nodded. “Very loud.”
    “Good.” Pat pointed at the photo taped to the dashboard. “Take a minute,” he said. “Tim’s life depends on you being able to recognize this asshole.”
    Daniel had been staring at it the whole way from Saint Sebastian’s. That’s why he’d asked Pat to do the driving. But hetook another minute now to examine the face of the man who’d come in from Montreal to murder his uncle.
    He nodded to himself, snatched the photo off the dashboard, stuck it in his pocket, and put his sunglasses on.
    Pat donned his own sunglasses, then pulled a lime-green plastic bowler hat from his backpack and put it on his head. He said, “Tell me true now, does my butt look big in this?”
    Daniel couldn’t help but smile. “Not at all,” he said, “very slimming.”
    “It’ll help you spot me in the crowd, brother.” Pat opened the car door. “Let’s go do this.”

    Reverend Tim Trinity and Mambo Angelica Ory started walking together, and the people walked with them, down Caffin Avenue, passing one- and two-story homes, some mid-renovation with camping trailers parked in their driveways or on their lawns, others still boarded up, still bearing the spray-painted symbols left behind by soldiers after the flood waters receded, the number at the bottom of each symbol indicating how many bodies were found inside.
    Veves
of the damned.
    But other homes told a better story, one of endurance and rebirth, of stubborn faith in the possibility that tomorrow can be made better than today. Those houses stood up straight and their windows sparkled

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