The Trinity Game

leave.
    “Nick, please, don’t do this.”
    “Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it. Probably never should’ve assigned you to the case, but I thought you were strong enough to handle it. I was wrong.”
    “This isn’t like Honduras, I promise you.” He held the form out to Nick, but the older priest didn’t take it.
    “No, this is worse. Then, I was worried about your sanity. This time, your loyalty is in question.”

H arsh morning light streamed through the east windows as Daniel paced between dresser and bed, filling a large suitcase with socks and boxers and T-shirts, trousers and toiletries and paperback crime novels.
    Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out, I just can’t risk it.
    But Nick wasn’t just making sure Daniel would
sit it out
. There was no television at the retreat in Poppi, no radio, no newspapers. No contact whatsoever with the outside world. However this thing with his uncle played out, Nick was making sure Daniel would miss it entirely.
    Was
that
God’s will?
    Whatever’s happening here, it’s happening to your uncle. God doesn’t make coincidences that big. No way He’d want you to sit it out.
    Was Nick even thinking about God’s will? Or was protecting the “One True Church” from a Protestant/Holy Roller/con artist, the trump card?
    Or was that just Trinity talking, inside Daniel’s head?
    He snapped the suitcase shut, sat heavily beside it on the bed. The framed photo on the dresser caught his eye, and he picked itup. Eighteen-year-old Daniel Byrne, freshly minted New Orleans Golden Gloves Welterweight Champion.
    Julia had been in the stands when Daniel won the trophy. She didn’t like him fighting, couldn’t stand to see him get hit, but promised if he made the finals, she’d be there. And she was true to her word.
    Tim Trinity was also there, standing in the back row, drinking beer from a plastic New Orleans Saints go-cup, cheering louder than anybody, cheering:
Danny, Danny, Danny!
    Daniel had refused to even acknowledge his existence, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him play proud papa. Instead he used Trinity’s presence to fuel his anger, and scored a knockout when he shattered the other boy’s nose thirty-three seconds into the first round.
    Now he looked at the kid he was, holding the trophy over his head and grinning for the camera. Grinning like he was the happiest kid in the world.
    You might’ve fooled everyone else, but you didn’t fool me…
    He put the photo back on the dresser, picked up a roll of white Title boxing tape and his gloves. God, he wanted to punch something. But he didn’t put them on, just dropped them in his carry-on.
    Maybe they’d let him set up a heavy bag at the retreat.
    Call it
aggression therapy
.

    A black car idled at the curb in front of Daniel’s apartment building. George leaned against it, smoking.
    Daniel stepped out into the morning light, dropped his suitcase, and put on his sunglasses. “I know the way to the airport.”
    “Father Nick asked me to travel with you today, look after whatever needs you might have along the way.” George didn’t put any effort into selling the line. There was no use pretending; they both knew it was bullshit.
    “He thinks I’m gonna go AWOL?”
    George shrugged. “Quit yer whining,
Bono
, this is as awkward for me as it is for you.” Then he let out a cruel grin. “Well, maybe not.”
    “Screw you, George.” Daniel hoisted his bag. “Pop the trunk.”

    So this was how far Nick’s confidence had fallen. He’d never made a secret of the fact that Daniel was
favorite son
among his investigators. Heir apparent.
    Now he didn’t even trust Daniel to get on a plane.
    I just can’t risk it…
    Daniel stewed and George gloated, both in silence, all the way to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, where George led the way through Terminal B, to the Alitalia check-in counter. They checked Daniel’s suitcase and picked up their tickets to Florence.
    They don’t send you to purgatory on a private jet.
    With time to kill, they found a business travelers’ lounge, grabbed some coffee and croissants, and settled in a quiet corner, where a television displayed a scrolling stock ticker.
    George snatched up the remote, aimed it at the television. “I’ll get a news channel, give you one final chance to watch your uncle.”
    One final chance. What a prick.
    “I don’t want to see it,” Daniel