The Trinity Game

said. He stood up. “I’m gonna check the board, see if we’re on schedule.”
    George also stood. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonesome.” They crossed the lounge to the bank of flight information monitors.
    Daniel scanned down the departures list, past the Alitalia flight, his eyes stopping on any commercial flights to Atlanta.
    The next flight departed in seventy-five minutes.
    Virgin Airlines.
    Very funny, God. That’s a good one.
    The cut-off time for check-in was fifteen minutes away.
    Sorry, kiddo. You’re gonna have to sit the rest of this one out…
    Daniel watched his reflection in the monitor. Thinking:
Just get on the damn plane and do your time in Poppi. Don’t throw your life away.
    They returned to the table, and this time Daniel got the remote first. He flipped channels, stopped on ESPN.
Sportscenter
was showing highlights of a thoroughbred race.
    The announcer was saying, “…a shocker at Aqueduct, as Mr. Smitten—a fifty-to-one underdog—comes steaming around the final curve and passes the entire field to win the Gotham Stakes, finishing eight-and-a-half lengths ahead of Executive Council, with Sweet Revenge showing in third…”
    The race Trinity had predicted, ending exactly as he predicted it.
    Daniel’s heart pounded, his head swam, and beads of cold sweat broke out on his upper lip.
    That Trinity had nailed it was no surprise, not after everything Daniel had seen in the last week. What shook him was that they’d just come in here on a whim, he’d flipped channels blindly, and landed right on this story.
    Was
this
God’s will?
    If God transformed Saul, the violent persecutor of early Christians, into the Apostle Paul—
Saint Paul
—the main architectof Christianity as we know it, might He not similarly choose a modern sinner against Christ to carry his message today? Trinity was many miles from being a man of God, but his sins paled when compared to Saul’s.
    We’re supposed to believe there is no sin so great, no sinner so wicked…
No one
is beyond redemption through the mercy of God.
    Maybe that was the point.
    Nick refused to even discuss the possibility. But Nick hadn’t been there.
    Ignoring George, Daniel grabbed his carry-on bag and stalked toward the men’s room. He burst through the door, headed to the sinks, dropped his bag on the white tile floor, braced his hands on the counter, and breathed long and deep.
    George came in after him, stopped, and said, “What the fucking hell is wrong with you?”
    “Anxiety attack,” said Daniel between breaths.
    George snorted. “Anxiety, is it? Well now, aren’t we precious?” He unzipped and used the urinal, zipped up, and came to the sink next to Daniel, held his hands under the automatic tap.
    Daniel straightened up slowly, stretched his hands over his head, breathed, said, “Sorry, I think I’m OK now,” and brought his arms down with full force, slamming George’s forehead into the faucet.
    “Fuck!” George jerked upright and Daniel silenced him with a flurry of fists to the solar plexus, pounding the wind out of him.
    As George slid to the floor, struggling for breath, Daniel dragged him into the large wheelchair stall, dragged the bag in after them, locked the door. He got George seated on the toilet, grabbed the roll of boxing tape from his bag, taped his mouth, wrists, and ankles. The cut wasn’t too bad, but foreheads bleed a lot, so Daniel quickly taped the cut as well. It would take a few stitches later.
    “I’d apologize, George, but the thing is, I’m not sorry.”
    George didn’t try to answer, but his eyes were full of murder.
    Daniel slid under the door, quickly washed the blood from his hands, splashed cold water on his face. He wiped his face dry with a paper towel, hooked a finger behind his clerical collar.
    And took the collar off.
    Sorry, Nick. I just can’t sit this one out.

Atlanta, Georgia…
    B y sunrise, the highways into Atlanta were jammed solid. Poor folks driving rusted-out beaters, pulling overloaded trailers, senior citizens peeking over the steering wheels of massive RVs, Deadheads with psychedelic peace signs and dancing teddy bears on their station wagon windows, and thousands of others along the shoulder, riding bicycles, or on foot, carrying large backpacks, carrying small children, making the pilgrimage any way they could.
    Some holding hands, many singing their faith aloud.
    His Eye is On The Sparrow…
    People Get Ready…
    I Shall Be Released…
    Walk In