The Trinity Game

already there, which other preachers’ kids were hacking around the place. Looking especially for Reverend Auld’s baby blue Winnebago, looking for Trixie, Auld’s skinny blonde daughter with the freckles splashed across her cheeks and the unsettling green eyes. Hoping she was there, hoping she wasn’t, fearing he’d be tongue-tied yet again.
    A car door slammed, and the ride in the time machine ended. Daniel yawned, stretched. Then realized they weren’t moving. He blinked and sat up straight. “What’s going on? Where are we?”
    He was alone in the truck. Trinity was gone, and he’d taken his Bible with him.
    Daniel glanced at his watch—1:57. He held up a hand to block the sun and looked through the windshield. About sixty cars and pickups, parked on a field of dry grass…
    And a half dozen RVs…
    Parked beside a big white tent.
    For a few long seconds, Daniel groggily considered the possibility of time travel, decided it was more likely that he was still asleep, still dreaming.
No, this is the truck we got from the redneck. This is now…
    Oh, shit.
    Trinity’s stopped at a tent revival.
    He jumped from the truck and ran, weaving between parked trucks, passing under a vinyl banner that said:
    THE HOLY SPIRIT IS ALIVE IN GREENVILLE
    …and into the packed tent.
    About two hundred people under the tent, some sitting in folding lawn chairs but most standing, some holding camcorders, all facing the plywood stage where a fat Holy Roller with a microphone bellowed hallelujahs through a PA system so powerful you could feel the man’s voice rumble in your abdomen. Daniel kept moving, scanning the crowd as he pressed further inside.
    After a few seconds, he spotted his uncle.
But it was too late.
    The Holy Roller stopped bellowing and stood agape as Trinity bounded up the steps at the side of the stage, bright blue Bible in hand. Several in the crowd gasped audibly. A woman shouted, “It’s Reverend Tim!” And another, “Reverend Tim’s alive!” followed by a “Praise Jesus!” and at least a dozen hallelujahs.
    Tim Trinity waved to the crowd and flashed his thousand-watt smile. “Thank you, thank you, bless you.” He made calming gestures with his Bible and the crowd got quiet. “I was just drivin’ past and spotted y’all’s tent, and I got to feeling that God wanted me to stop and say a few words.” He shook his head. “Now, I don’t…well, to be honest, I don’t feel a spell coming on, and I don’t know if Godwill choose to speak through me in tongues, and if he doesn’t, I won’t fake it.”
    Trinity stepped gracefully over to the Holy Roller and took the microphone from him with a smile and a nod of thanks. He turned away from the crowd, found a chair at the back of the stage, and dragged it to the front. He sat and blew out a long breath and said, “I hope y’all don’t mind if I sit. I tell ya true, the last few weeks have been as much a trial as a blessing. But I’m trying. Trying to do the right thing. And that’s why I stopped when I saw your tent. I know you’ve all seen me on television, but some of you will remember, before I was on television, I used to come by Greenville pretty regular.”
    “We remember you, Reverend Tim!” shouted a skinny old man in the crowd.
    “Good. Because I have a confession to make.” Trinity cleared his throat. “All those times I came here, I was, uh…well, no way to sugar-coat it. I was a fake.” The crowd gasped, almost as one. He nodded, “I know, it’s terrible. I was conning you, just trying to put on a good show and separate you from some of your hard-earned money. That’s the truth.” He stood up. “I believe God brought me here so I could make my confession. And I think he would want me to warn you that
this man
—” he thrust a finger at the Holy Roller standing to his right “—
this man
is a false prophet, just as I was.”
    The crowd responded with a stunned silence, as if Trinity’s words hadn’t quite registered or didn’t make any sense. After a few seconds, everyone started talking at the same time, their voices running together in confusion and despair.
    But some voices rose above the chaos to call out their disbelief.
    “No!”
    “Not Preacher Bob!”
    “Why should we believe you? You just admitted you’re a fake!”
    The Holy Roller jumped forward, snatched the microphone from Trinity, jabbed a finger at the air between them and bellowed, “Satan!” He swept his arm, taking in the crowd.