The Trinity Game

jammed, it would be a long drive back to town on the side roads.
    Daniel stood and walked among the rainwater rock pools scattered around the surface. Like craters on the moon. When he was a boy, his uncle said the little craters were made by God’s fingertip. Said that Stone Mountain had once been a prime meeting place for the Ku Klux Klan, and whenever God saw a Klansman walking on the rock, He’d poke his finger down in a bolt of lightning and crush the Klansman like an insect.
    Stone Mountain was the other Atlanta ritual. Sometimes before the Varsity, sometimes after, but Tim and Danny’s Atlanta adventures had always included both.
    The sun was almost at the horizon. He should go now. Instead he moved closer to the northern edge of the mountain, sat cross-legged.
    One time, when he was about seven or eight—he couldn’t remember exactly—they’d been caught at the top of Stone Mountain after dark, in a massive electrical storm. The Skyride cable cars had been shut down because of the storm, and the tourists scampered like wet cats down the slippery hiking trail, children wailing and women screaming and men shouting, thunder booming all around them as lightning strobed just over their heads.
    Between lightning flashes, it was so dark you could barely see five feet ahead. The hot summer rain came down in buckets. A bolt of lightning struck so close the earth shook below their feet and Danny’s ears started ringing and he was blinded for a full minute. He grabbed his uncle’s leg in a bear hug, helpless, whimpering,sure that this would be the end. The other tourists were all down the hill by now, out of sight. But Danny couldn’t move from fear.
    Tim Trinity squatted down and took the boy by the shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and smiled like he hadn’t a care in the world.
    “You’re safe with me, kid. You’re always safe with me.”
    With the boy attached to his leg, Trinity walked calmly to the sheer northern face of the mountain, right to the edge, stood tall and spread his arms wide, like Moses parting the Red Sea. His unbuttoned windbreaker flapped wildly, like wet wings.
    Trinity’s voice boomed into the storm, “In
Jesus’s
name, I command and declare! No harm shall come to this child of God on this night! All the angels of heaven shall guide our steps, and we will walk safely down this mountain, so that we may partake of chilidogs at the Varsity! So it shall be, and
so it is!
” He lowered his hands, winked at the boy. “OK, we’re good. Let’s roll.”
    They hiked down the mountain through the pouring rain, hand-in-hand, under the protection of angels. And, amazingly, Daniel felt no fear.
    They drove, soaking wet, to the Varsity, and ate chilidogs and fried pies in the Winnebago. And laughed about the storm.
    On that night, Tim Trinity was truly magic, and Danny was the happiest boy in Atlanta.
    Daniel stood again, brushed his hands against his pant legs. He walked right to the edge—the sheer face of the mountain where Trinity had commanded the angels—and inched forward, until the tips of his shoes poked out over the edge.
    He looked straight down, and the tingle began. Then spread his arms wide and held them there, muscles in his legs and core twitching to compensate for the buffeting wind.
    He leaned forward at the waist…
    Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’
”
    Adrenaline surged, his nerves became electric. He held his position, felt for the exact point of balance—the tipping point—found it, teetered on the balls of his feet for a few seconds.
    He imagined falling.
    Like the dream of falling that jerks you back from the edge of sleep.
    He jerked his body back from the edge, took a few deep breaths.
    The sun was at the horizon. It was time to go.

C onrad Winter sat with a drink in the bar of the Westin Peachtree, waiting for a text message that was fifteen minutes overdue, wondering if he’d miscalculated, if it wouldn’t come at all. The cell phone rang—not a text—and the screen told him the call was coming from the Office of the Devil’s Advocate.
    “Nick,” said Conrad, putting a smile in his voice, “an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?”
    “You can knock off