The Trinity Game

can’t do small talk right now. Something important has come up, and I think it’ll be of professional interest to you.”
    A couple seconds of silence. “All right, shoot.”
    “It’s a delicate situation, and I’d like to keep our conversation off the record.”
    Another pause on the line. “OK.”
    “OK. There’s gonna be an explosion at the Belle Chasse oil refinery. Tomorrow morning.”
    “Jesus Christ…pardon the blasphemy. What kind of explosion?”
    “I don’t know, an accident of some kind.”
    “Accident? How do you know about it, then?”
    “That’s the delicate part. I already called the refinery—they thought I was a nut job. But if you warn them—”
    “I’m sorry if it’s delicate for you, but I can’t just take your word on it. I need to know how you know this.”
    “I understand. But we’re off the record, right?”
    “We already agreed on that.”
    “Fine. This will sound completely insane, I realize, but if you check it out, you’ll know it’s the truth.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “You remember my uncle, Tim Trinity?”
    “    ’Course I do.”
    “You’ll find his broadcasts archived on his ministry website. You need to look at the one from yesterday. Not all of it. Just skip ahead to the speaking-in-tongues part. Record the tongues, then play it backwards and speed it up by a third.”
    “Are you drunk?”
    “I’m serious. Run it backwards, and Trinity’s speaking English. He predicts the accident at the refinery. I know how crazy this sounds, but it’ll only take an hour of your time. Lives are at stake here, Julia.”
    She sighed into the phone. “All right, I’ll check it out.”
    “Promise?”
    “Yeah, I just said I would.”
    “And you’ll get down to the refinery today, warn them.”
    “I will.”
    “Thanks, Julia.”
    “Yup. You take care now, Danny.”

    Julia Rothman hung up the phone, dropped her face into her hands, and didn’t move for a full minute.
    A reporter two desks over said, “You OK?”
    “Yeah,” said Julia, “that was just an old friend. Sad to say, he’s become a member of the tinfoil hat brigade.” She tore the top sheet off her notepad, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.
    Thinking:
What the hell happened to you, Danny?

T im Trinity sat alone, drinking bourbon in the video control room, facing a wall of blank monitors. One monitor for each of the four camera feeds, three more dedicated to video playback decks. A master monitor in the center was for whichever feed was currently “hot,” as the director punched buttons on the switcher to assemble the finished show. An audio mixing board sat on the table, next to the switcher. The soft whisper of the machines’ cooling-fans was the only sound in the room. He’d always found that sound comforting and often spent time in the control room after the crew went home.
    But he hadn’t come here tonight for comfort.
    The soundproof door opened and a young video technician—Trinity couldn’t recall his name—entered, arms full of videocassettes. The kid put the tapes on the table, making a neat tower.
    “Here’s the last fifteen episodes, Reverend Trinity. Most recent on top. Anything else I can get you?”
    “That’ll do.”
    “Want me to stay and run the deck?”
    “No, I got it. You can go home now.”
    “Yes, sir. Good night.” The kid started for the door.
    “Hey, kid.” Trinity dug into his pants pocket and fished out a fifty-dollar bill, stuck it in the kid’s hand. “Thanks for staying late.”
    “Thank
you
, sir. Sure do appreciate it. I’m getting married next month, and this’ll help the honeymoon fund. We’re going to—”
    “Fine, have a good time,” mumbled Trinity as he swiveled his chair away from the kid and grabbed a tape off the top of the tower. The door closed behind him, and he stuck the tape into a playback deck.
    He scanned through the tape on high speed, to the end of yesterday’s tongues, and hit pause. He refilled his glass from the bottle of Blanton’s, took a sip. He turned the deck’s jog-wheel to the left, and the tape began running backwards.
    Trinity listened. And heard.
    “Oh my God,” he said.
    The glass slipped from his hand, splashing bourbon across his white leather cowboy boots.

    Daniel sat on his bed, Bible on his lap, reading the Song of Solomon.
    Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm;
for love is strong as death,
passion fierce as the grave.
Its