The Trinity Game

laugh.”
    “The distance from Gadsden to Greenville,” said Agent Hillborn, “is 173 miles. The money was picked up at ten fifteen a.m. by a Mr. Daniel Byrne. Trinity showed up, with this man, at the tent revival in Greenville just under four hours later.” He shrugged. “Maybe they stopped for a sandwich.” He pushed the photo closer and spoke with exaggerated calm. “We are done fucking around, Julia. You have two choices: Continue to obstruct our investigation,in which case tomorrow will find you not in New Orleans covering the biggest story of your life, but in a jail cell while your lawyer begs a federal judge for a bail hearing sometime in the next week.” He handed Julia a printout of her own cell phone records. “Your other choice: Tell us what you know about Daniel Byrne and his business with Tim Trinity.”

    “It’s Julia.”
    “’Course it is.” Daniel reached over and switched the radio off. “You’re the only one with my number.”
    There was a pause on the line before Julia said, “I’m sorry.”
    “Who?”
    “A couple of FBI agents, they leaned on me pretty hard. I couldn’t legally refuse them…and anyway, they need to investigate this. I’m sorry,” she repeated.
    “It’s OK, Julia.”
    “They had my cell records, they could be listening in on my calls, so I ran to a payphone as soon as they left.”
    “What did they say?”
    “They think Trinity’s gotten himself mixed up with some very bad people, and they’re offering to get him into witness protection if he cooperates. They knew about the money I wired you, and they asked about your role in all this. I told them the basics: You’re a Catholic priest sent by the Vatican to investigate, and you told me how to decode the tongues. I gave them your number, so—”
    “So they’ll use my cell as a tracker and probably listen to my calls until they catch up with us.”
    “Danny, they want you to turn yourselves in for questioning. The longer you run, the worse it’s gonna look. Think about it. At least they could keep you safe. And if Trinity is innocent, then why—”
    “We’ve already been on the phone too long,” said Daniel. “I won’t answer this number again, and I’m not gonna call your cell.”
    “How will I—”
    “Remember our first date?”
    “What?”
    “Our first date, the first time we went out alone. Remember where we met?”
    “Yes.”
    “OK, go there. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. If I don’t show up, try again the next day. I’ll meet you there at three o’clock. Oh, and I promise to be my usual punctual self.”
    Julia’s laugh was worried but warm. “I remember.”
    “Good. Thanks for the heads-up.” He snapped the phone shut.
    “What’s the trouble,” said Tim Trinity.
    “FBI.” Daniel pulled off the highway, into a truck stop.
    “Lemme guess: They think I blew up the refinery and rigged the lotto.”
    “At the very least, they think you
know
who did.”
    “I do. God did. But what are my chances of convincing
them
of that?”
    “Yeah,” said Daniel. He pulled slowly alongside a black pickup truck parked at the pumps, tossed the cell phone into its payload, and drove away.

D aniel gave New Orleans a wide berth, cutting north all the way around Lake Pontchartrain, and then south into Cajun Country, past LaPlace, past Houma, picking up a new prepaid cell phone and an LSU baseball cap at a gas station along the way. Back in the truck, he tossed the ball cap to Trinity.
    “Go Tigers,” said Trinity, putting the cap on.
    They continued south, deeper into the bayou. The road narrowed and foliage thickened as the world became less about land and more about water. The air was heavy with it, hot and salty and vegetal. They rode with the windows down, and Trinity chain-smoked. Daniel didn’t mind; both men were getting a little ripe, and the smoke smelled marginally better than they did.
    He stopped on the shoulder and turned on the new phone.
    Pat Wahlquist had given Daniel his business card four years ago, after Daniel had smuggled Pat out of Central America. “If the shit ever hits the fan harder than you can handle,” he’d said as he pressed the card into Daniel’s palm. Daniel hadn’t looked at the card since, but he’d always kept it with him, just in case.
    He opened his wallet, dug behind the false flap in the billfold section, and pulled out Pat’s card. It read…
    PAT WAHLQUIST
    Slayer of Dragons
    …and a phone number. Daniel dialed the