Rescue

road just before the causeway and got out, ostensibly to admire the view of the bay. A clear sign, navy blue on white, said LITTLE MERCY KEY—PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING, PLEASE. I thought the “please“ seemed cutesy.
    The pickup continued over the causeway and onto the smaller Key. It stopped at what looked to be a gate, some figures moving around it as the truck started again and slid from sight due to the contour of the road.
    I admired the view some more, then followed again.
    Coming up and over the causeway, the gate was visible against high, white walls behind it, as though the gate and the mesh fence it was part of were an enclosure. To the right of the gate was a guardhouse, two men standing by it. There Was concertina wire across the top of the gate and fence, like a secret research base off in the desert somewhere.
    The two men held up their hands as I got closer. They were in their twenties, both wearing white long-sleeved shirts and white pants, just like the big guy. They had braided, navy blue string ties and white bolos in the shape of a cross at their collar buttons. No weapons I could see, but each guard wore a left-ear insert with wire running under the neckline. Both were clean-cut, brown-haired, and stern, the Sons of the Pioneers as White Muslims.
    I stopped the convertible, and each walked to a front door The one on my side said, “Sorry, sir, this is private property.“
    I said, “Doesn’t it belong to the Church?“
    The one at the passenger door said, “And what church would that be, sir?“
    I turned to him. “Why, the Reverend Wyeth’s. The Church of the Lord Vigilant.“
    My guy said, “Sir, if you have business with the Church, its offices are on the Overseas Highway.“
    I turned back to him. “The what?“
    “Route 1. North.“ He gave me the mile marker.
    I said, “Well, thanks very much. Maybe I’ll be seeing you again later.“
    In unison, they said, “Have yourself a very blessed day, now.“
    I shifted into reverse, wheeled around, and started toward the causeway.

    In front of the white and navy office building, I left the Sunbird in a space marked VISITORS, AND WELCOME, TOO! Probably the same sign-maker as out by the causeway.
    The small brass plaque at the entrance said:

    the church of the lord vigilant
    world headquarters
    the reverend royel wyeth, your pastor

    I opened the door onto a reception area that would have fit any corporate office I’d ever visited, except for the artwork on the walls. Christ Driving the Moneylenders from the Temple, the Last Supper, the Crucifixion. In fact, several depictions of the Crucifixion, but none of the Reverend. I thought of the “no false, graven images“ passage from the Bible.
    The woman behind the desk had a headset as well. This one ore like a pilot’s. She was in her early thirties, the hair worn short and curly. Her long fingers whisked over the buttons on her console, a pianist who had mastered a particularly difficult concerto, nodding at me while she said into the mouthpiece, “Certainly, ma’am, I’ll connect you, and have yourself a very blessed day, now... Why, thank you! I will, too.“
    No security in white square-dancing outfits anywhere in sight. There were fliers next to her on the desk, and I took one. It advertised a “Worship“ that Friday evening on the “Tent Ground“ at five o’clock. That seemed kind of early, but then I didn’t know much about the industry.
    The receptionist played a few more chords on the switchboard before looking up at me. “May I help you, sir?“
    “Yes. I’d very much like to see the pastor.“
    “The... ? Oh, Reverend Wyeth.“
    “Right. I’d like to make a contribution to the Church.“
    “Oh, bless you, sir.“ She reached under her desk. “We have these handy envelopes for just that purpose.“
    “Actually, it’s a rather large contribution I had in mind.“
    “Rather large?“
    “Yes. A little much for an anonymous envelope, if you get
    my point.“
    “Yessir, I surely do. I’ll call upstairs for you. Your name, please?“
    “John Francis.“
    “Well, Mr. Francis, my name’s Urlene. You just have yourself a seat, now, and get real comfy, and I won’t be a moment.“
    If I heard another sentence like that one, she’d be having to bring me an insulin shot to ward off the diabetes. I took a white leather chair in an arrangement under the Last Sup-Per. The chair was a bit on the stiff side of “comfy.“ Off to toe right, behind the