The Trinity Game (3 page)

Rome, Italy…

D
aniel picked up his Honda Shadow from long-term parking at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, hit the Autostrada, and pointed the motorcycle toward the lights of Rome, barely seeing the road, his mind replaying scenes from Nigeria.

The obsequious parish priest, angling to parlay his local miracle into a promotion to the big city. The grandparents and parents filled with pride because “God has chosen our little Abassi to bear the wounds of Christ.” And the teenage girl with endless brown eyes, manic energy, and a handful of three-inch twisted-shank roofing nails hidden under her mattress.

Daniel had caught her in the act. He knew she was self-mutilating, but he played dumb for a few days, interviewing the girl and her family with softball questions, lulling them into a sense of security. Every few hours, the family would contrive to leave the girl alone. “She needs to rest, this is so hard on her,” one of them would say, and all would agree with pitying nods of the head, wringing their rough country hands. They would sit in the kitchen and drink tea from chipped china, and when they returned an hour later with a cup of tea for the girl, their footfalls were loud and they paused a little too long between knock and enter.

Willful blindness. He tried not to hate them for it.

On the third day, during one of the girl’s “rests,” Daniel excused himself from the kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, exactly as he had done the previous days. But this time he walked straight to the girl’s room and threw the door open.

She sat smiling on her bed, quietly singing “Jesus Loves Me,” while jabbing a nail straight through the palm of her left hand. Then twisting the nail, enlarging the hole as blood dripped into her lap.

Conrad wasn’t wrong about what was at stake. The twisted, fundamentalist brand of Islam that Boko Haram was selling in Nigeria was beyond regressive—it was violent, misogynistic, and apocalyptic. Their name meant “Western education is sacrilege.” They’d vowed to kill all the Christians living in their territory, and they were making good on it. They’d already killed over a thousand, burned over three hundred churches. Last Christmas Day, they slaughtered forty-two Catholics. The moderate Muslims struggling to govern the country in cooperation with the Christian minority were losing ground to the Islamist radicals, and after years living under the imminent threat of civil war, no one wanted to admit that the war was in fact well underway. The politicians still used the term
insurgency
, but it came out sounding like wishful thinking.

Of course there was no argument with Conrad’s goal, and yes, faking a miracle might help win the current battle, but it could very well lose them the longer war. And the mandate of the ODA was to always take the long view and evaluate miracle claims honestly.

And then there was the girl with the holes in her hands, the girl who needed help from a psychologist, not validation of her neurosis from the Vatican. Calling this a miracle would only guarantee her complete destruction.

Conrad was willing to jettison this girl—condemn her to a life of mental illness—for the
greater good
, and call it collateral damage. Call
her
collateral damage. But to Daniel, you cross that line and now you’re cutting God’s grass. It’s one thing to try and do God’s will, quite another to start making His decisions for Him. If pride was Daniel’s sin, it seemed a little less monstrous by comparison.

Daniel said a long prayer for the girl, crossed himself, and returned his attention to the road ahead.

“I can’t believe you’re letting this happen.”

Father Nick, head of the Office of the Devil’s Advocate, shrugged broad shoulders, leaned back in his chair. “Out of my hands. His Eminence oversees both departments—if he wants you in World Outreach…”

“I’m an
investigator—
I have no business over in Outreach. You know that.”

“Easy, Dan. Your skills as an investigator are not in question.” Nick gestured at a chair across the desk. “Sit.”

Daniel sat. “It’s politics, isn’t it? Conrad’s pissed because I won’t fake one for him, and he got Cardinal Allodi to go along.”

“That would be my theory,” said Nick. “His Eminence didn’t share his deliberations with me. I lobbied for you, but…” He rose to the antique mahogany wet bar, poured golden Armagnac into a couple of crystal snifters. “I’ve skimmed your e-mails on the case. You say there’s no miracle.”

“No miracle. Just a messed-up teenager sticking nails into her hands and feet when everyone’s back was turned.” Daniel took the
offered glass. “And their backs were turned a lot. Everyone wanted it to be real.”

Nick sat. “OK. I know it’s rough sometimes.”

“The girl started self-mutilating at twelve. For
three
years
, the whole town—family, friends, even her priest—treated her like a gift from God. I spent three days in that madhouse, and I can tell you, that girl is seriously broken.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “And we’re the ones who teach them that stigmata exists.”

Father Nick fixed the younger priest with a firm stare. “Just because you haven’t seen it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

But in a decade investigating miracle claims for the Vatican, Daniel hadn’t seen
anything
yet. Ten years of stigmatic self-mutilators and schizophrenics hearing voices and con artists pumping salt water through hollowed-out statues of the Blessed Virgin. Ten years of oil drum rust-stains that look
kinda-sorta-almost
like Jesus if you squint your eyes just so and hold your head on an angle and harbor an intense desire to see Jesus in a rust-stain.

Ten years.

Seven hundred and twenty-one cases.

Not one miracle.

It wasn’t as if Daniel wasn’t hoping for a miracle. But even setting aside the principles involved—even if he were willing to start down the slippery slope of
ends justifying means
—the girl in Nigeria would never stand up to scrutiny; she’d be exposed as a fraud. And putting the Vatican’s stamp of approval on a fake could lead to the kind of PR the Church didn’t need in the war for
hearts and minds
. “You’re not suggesting I change my verdict on this case, are you, Father Nick?”

“No. There are those who wish you would, but I’m not one of them, and I already made that fact clear to all interested parties.
But you need to face reality—the cost of that choice is I now have to loan you to Conrad for a while. I’ll continue to lobby His Eminence, and hopefully your exile will be brief.” He sipped some brandy and forced a smile. “Ah well, if God wants a miracle in Nigeria, He’ll just have to make one Himself.”

“Come on, Nick, there’s gotta be something you can do. Conrad’s a first-class prick, I’ll go crazy working for him.”

“You haven’t walked in his shoes,” said Father Nick. “The horrors he has to deal with…but you’re right, he is a prick.” Nick looked into his snifter for a long while, then took a slow sip. “Actually, there is a case I could claw you back into the ODA on, citing special circumstances, but—”

“Special circumstances?”

“That’s the problem. The very reason I don’t think I should assign the case to you.”

“I’ll do it. Anything.”

“I think it could be bad for you, kiddo. I’ve seen you get personally involved in cases before—”

“One case.” Daniel fought to keep the anger out of his voice. He’d done his penance for Honduras, but Vatican memories are long. Here they forgive, but they never forget. “
Four years ago.
Come on, Nick, I’m fine. I can handle it.”

“I dunno.” Nick held eye contact. “How’s your faith holding?”

“I’m working on it, as usual.” Nick didn’t respond, so Daniel quoted the older priest’s familiar phrase back at him, “ ‘Faith is a choice, not a state of being.’” He smiled. “I keep making the choice. That’s what matters, right?”

“You’re not working on it, you’re running around looking for proof. You don’t think I know? Believe me, I know. You made a deal with God a long time ago: you’d pretend to believe, and He’d
show His face, and then you’d
really
believe. And you know
how
I know? Because that was me as a young man. But time’s ticking, you’re not getting any younger.” Nick finally smiled for real. “Look, you’re my doubting Thomas and I love you for it. I hope someday when I’m old and senile enough, you’ll be sitting here in the big chair. But you do have to work on your faith. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

Daniel shook his head. “What do you want me to say? I keep making the choice, even when I have to make it several times a day. I’m fine, really. I want this case, whatever it is. And the fact that we’re still discussing it tells me you could really use me on it.”

Father Nick conceded the point with a nod. After a long silence he said, “OK. We’ve got a…well, an anomaly, let’s call it. And it has to do with your uncle.”

D
aniel played it twice over in his mind until he was sure he’d heard it correctly. A defensive snort escaped before he could rein it in. He followed with, “My uncle is a
con man
.”

Father Nick held up his hands. “I know. I know, and that makes you perfect for it. You’re the best debunker in the business,
and
you know his particular tricks.” He picked up a television remote from the desktop. “Have you seen his show recently?”

“It’s been a while,” Daniel said.

Nick aimed the remote at a wide, flat-panel television perched on the antique credenza, and the screen came on blue. He pressed another button, and the blue screen was replaced by video of the
Tim Trinity Prosperity-Power Miracle Hour
. “This was taped last week,” he said.

On the screen, Reverend Tim Trinity stalked the stage like a large predatory cat, right to left, left to right, pausing occasionally to connect with the camera, never fully at rest. The stage was dressed up like a pulpit, complete with faux stained glass windows (backlit, of course), balsawood columns painted to look like mahogany, and a clear Plexiglas lectern, downstage-center. Trinity wore a royal blue silk suit, white leather cowboy boots and matching belt. On his left wrist, a chunky gold Rolex, its face wall-to-wall diamonds. A wireless microphone curved around from his right ear, like he
was God’s own telemarketer. On his right hand he balanced an open Bible, its pages edged in silver, its cover made of fine leather, dyed blue, the same bright shade as his suit.

Daniel wondered if the suit had been selected to match the Bible or the Bible to match the suit.

Trinity spoke with a pronounced New Orleans accent, and his patter flowed like brandy, perfected over more than twenty-five years on the tent revival circuit and in churches, then on television for the last fourteen. The man had his act down cold—didn’t even need the Bible, but for its value as a prop. And that was no small value. He brandished his blue Bible to maximum effect, flipped pages with a flourish, and punctuated important words by
thwacking
the pages with his left hand, calling attention to the bling on his wrist with each
thwack.

“Friends, I have some very bad news for you,” said Trinity, still smiling. “I’ve been called upon this day to reveal a hard truth. And I ain’t gonna sugar-coat it—
thwack—
NO, sir! I’m here today to tell you, most people who call themselves Christians have a fundamental
mis
-understanding of the nature of
sin
.” He stretched it into a two-syllable word.

Trinity stopped at the lectern. His eyes fell shut and he pulled his chin to the right, offering his profile as the camera cut to a close-up. He held the Bible to his forehead for a few seconds, then lowered it, faced forward, and opened his now watery eyes, blinking rapidly. A man of God, on the verge of tears.

“Forgive me. I must share with you what happened last night as I prepared today’s sermon. I was sitting in my study, pen in hand, and the Devil came calling. Yes, the—
thwack
—Devil! The Devil came to me last night and said, ‘Reverend Tim, stop what you’re doing.’ He said, ‘The people are not ready for this, you must not
reveal it. Seal up these things and do not write them.’ Oh yes, and he presented himself to me as an angel of the Lord…but you and I know that the Lord would never stop a prophet from speaking the truth. So I said, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ and his white robes fell away and he stood before me as a naked beast.” Trinity blew out a long breath. “Was I afraid? You know it, brother! You bet I was. But more than afraid, I was—and I know that it wasn’t me speaking, but for the power of Christ, I know it was God speaking through me—I stood up from my desk and I shouted, ‘You Devil, go straight back to Hell! Take one step closer and I will
strike
you down—” Trinity slashed at an imaginary devil with his Bible “—and I will
kick
you down—” he stomped hard on the stage “—and I will beat you like a redheaded stepchild!”