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The Trinity Game

The Trinity Game

Titel: The Trinity Game Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Sean Chercover
Vom Netzwerk:
high-resolution plasma television, unable to move. When the “Breaking News” graphic swept across the screen and the newscaster announced the explosion, he’d gone to the wet bar and grabbed a bottle. Now he stood there with the bottle in onehand. He wanted to sit back down on the leather sectional, but he’d forgotten how to operate his body. He wanted to raise the bottle and take a swig, but his arm wouldn’t obey.
    He wanted to look away from the blaze, but he couldn’t even blink.
    It looked to him like the fires of hell. Hell on earth. And sitting in the control room, just last night, he’d actually heard himself make the prediction.
    How the fuck is this even possible?
    Tim Trinity stood, unmoving, unblinking, staring at the screen, for a very long time.
    And he began to believe.



D aniel jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of his uncle’s Buckhead mansion. He pounded on the front door with the heel of his right hand. The door opened. Tim Trinity made bleary eye contact and turned back inside the house. Daniel followed him down a marble hallway, into a room with a big leather sofa facing a huge television.
    The television was tuned to CNN, the volume muted.
    Trinity plucked a bottle of bourbon off the coffee table, took a swig. “Yeah, I’m drunk,” he said, “and you would be too, if you had a lick of sense.”
    “What did you do?” Daniel thrust an accusing finger at the television screen. “What did you fucking
do
?”
    “I didn’t
make
this happen.” Trinity was indeed drunk, but still plenty lucid. “Until two days ago, I was just a guy with a mental problem. Question is what did
you
do?”
    It felt like a punch in the gut. “I tried to stop it.”
    “Evidently you didn’t try hard enough.” Another swig of bourbon. “Lemme ask you something. If the archbishop of New Orleans showed up at the refinery, you think he coulda convinced them there was a problem?”
    Daniel didn’t answer.
    “But they didn’t send him, did they? So who’s to blame here? Why don’t you take a look in the mirror, Danny?”
    “No, I-I called…I tried…”
    “Yeah? Well, I called too.” Trinity glanced at the television. “Wasn’t enough. And your bosses apparently didn’t share your enthusiasm, or they’d have put some muscle behind it.” He pointed the bottle at Daniel. “You may not wear the collar, but long as you work for them, you’re carrying their water. So let’s cut the bullshit, boy. What does the Vatican really want from me?”
    “They sent me here to discredit you. Debunk your tongues act.”
    “But they knew the predictions were coming true. So what’s really going on? Eliminating the competition? What?”
    Daniel brushed past his uncle and turned the television off. He sat down, braced his hands on his knees, and breathed slowly. “They don’t believe God is working through you. They don’t think it’s Satan, but they really don’t know.”
    “Oh, give me a fucking tax break, Danny.
Satan?
’Course it’s not Satan. Tell you who else it’s not. It’s not Santa Claus or the Green Goblin or the Easter Bunny neither. Satan’s a fairy tale.”
    “Well, whatever it is, it’s not God.” Daniel nodded toward his uncle. “You’re not exactly a poster child for faith.”
    Trinity sat on the sofa beside his nephew, spoke quietly. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since you got here.” He put the bottle on the floor. “But you know what I think? I think the Church is worried that God
is
working through me. They’ve got a trillion-dollar business to protect, and they’re gonna start looking pretty musty-dusty, with their robes and incense and Latin incantations, if a guy like me is a miracle. Not good for their brand.”
    Daniel stood. “I’m not listening to this. The Vatican is
not
a business—”
    “Christ, son, everything’s a business. Thought I’d taught you at least that much.”
    “And you are
not
a miracle. You’re not even a fucking believer.”
    Daniel walked out without another word, his hands balled into fists.

D aniel sat nursing a Guinness and picking absently at a Cobb salad. He didn’t feel hungry, but needed the nourishment, so he forced himself to eat. It was coming up on nine o’clock. The television screen above the bar displayed a live shot of what used to be the main refinery building, glowing like a man-made sunset in the Louisiana night.
    Still burning, but now under control.
    The opening graphics

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