The Trinity Game

uck!”
    Tim Trinity slammed his safety razor down on the marble countertop as blood seeped from the vertical slice he’d just carved in his chin, turning the shaving cream red. Electrical signals screamed up the nerves from his chin to his brain.
    Goddamn, that stings…
    He splashed cold water on the cut—might as well have been lemon juice—and reached out to grab the styptic pencil from his leather Dopp kit to staunch the flow of blood. But his hand jolted sideways and knocked the bag off the counter. Pill bottles and moisturizers and nose hair trimmers and tweezers clattered across the bathroom floor.
    The high-pitched buzzing in his brain surged, kicking his headache into migraine territory, signaling the imminent arrival of the tongues.
    This one’s coming on fast…
    Trinity snatched a face towel off the bar and pressed it against his chin as he maneuvered his body into the expansive bedroom, his movements now beyond twitchy, heading toward spastic.
    He yanked open the bedside table’s drawer, reached behind the Gideon’s Bible and pulled out his Ziploc baggie of cocaine, convulsed his way back into the bathroom, and managed to get the baggie open. He poured the white powder out onto the smooth marble countertop and leaned forward.
    Hold it. Stop right there…
    Trinity straightened and looked into the mirror, and his reflected self looked back at him. The bloodshot eyes of his reflected self held an intensity he’d never seen, and he couldn’t look away.
    An idea rose to the surface of his conscious mind, taking on shape and texture and weight as it came into focus, like a long-forgotten memory that, once remembered, could never be forgotten again.
    OK, God. You want to use me? I’m yours…
    The idea gave him an instant joy, but he fully understood what it demanded and the joy quickly gave way to abject fear. A wave of regret washed over him. He wanted to take it back, to
un-say
it, to bury his nose in the mound of white powder and draw deeply its offered escape, to snort it all in one go and end the voices, the tongues, the spasms. End them all.
    End them now, and maybe forever.
    Summoning every ounce of his bullheaded will, and before he could change his mind, he swept the cocaine into the sink, spun the tap, and flushed it down the drain, fear growing into terror, heart pounding in his chest. He looked back at his reflected self.
    I accept this curse…this gift…this obligation. I will not stop the tongues. I will bring your messages to the world…
    But saying it only increased his panic, and his stomach began roiling.
    He threw up in the sink. It purged the fear, not a lot, but maybe just enough. He washed his mouth out with tap water, looked back at himself in the mirror.
    You can do this, Tim. You’ve been a showman all your life; you’ve got the skills. Just put on that smile for the people and bluff it through, balls-out.
    But this time, you tell the truth…
    The next wave of muscle spasms hit.
    Tim Trinity braced his hands against the countertop and held on against the coming storm.

    Las Vegas, Nevada…
    “If you’re just tuning in,
this
is the scene in Atlanta today,” said Wolf Blitzer as pilgrims flooded the television screen, pitching tents in Centennial Park, waving placards in Five Points, scuffling with helmeted police outside the Westin Peachtree Plaza. “They call themselves Trinity’s Pilgrims, and their numbers are fast rising. But there are other voices, both religious skeptics and religious leaders, who charge that Reverend Tim Trinity is a false prophet at best, con man at worst.” The shot changed to a split screen: Blitzer on the left and the clusterfuck in Atlanta on the right. “Tonight, John King hosts a roundtable to break it down for us. After John, CNN’s own Soledad O’Brien hosts the one-hour special presentation: ‘Who Is Tim Trinity?’ I know you’ll want to be here for that…”
    William Lamech looked at the bespoke-suited men around the long glass table in the casino boardroom and zapped the television to silence. Zapped it to silence, but left it on. He wanted those images on the minds of these men, in this meeting.
    Lamech turned to his bodyguard, standing in the doorway.
    “Nobody gets in. No phone calls.”
    “Yes, Mr. Lamech.”
    The bodyguard left the room. Behind him, the door whispered shut.
    Jared Case shuffled through the stack of spreadsheets and bank statements and tax returns, passed them along to the next man. “My forensic