Rescue

her smile with them. We both sat down, me in a white leather chair that came from the same place as the arrangement downstairs, she in the mate to it, a high-back swivel model.
    She said, “Well, now, Brother John. Exactly how much are you contributing to the Cause of Christ?“
    “I guess before I settle on a figure, I want to have a better sense of what the Church does.“
    Some theatricality, but not much, went into, “Why, what it does is the work of the Lord! That’s all we do, all we’re dedicated to doing.“
    “I was sort of hoping I could see some more... tangible examples of that work, Sister Lutrice.“
    “Tangible.“
    “Yes.“
    “Well, you came by the studios downstairs, where we broadcast the Message of Jesus to all who would watch and listen.“
    “I suppose I was leaning more toward your facility on Little Mercy Key.“
    The frost spread from the hairdo to the mouth. “I’m afraid the Compound is off-limits to all but members of the Church.“
    I thought about the phone number in Lonnie Severn’s wallet for “Comp.“ and figured it might stand for “Compound.“
    Something about me made Wyeth suddenly warm back up-“However, Brother John, I will be doing a television spot this afternoon, and taping a radio interview with a marvelous Christian children’s author after that. Maybe I can arrange for you to see those, sort of a one-man studio audience?“
    “Sounds exciting, but I really had more of a tour in mind.“
    The frost came back into the voice. “Well, I’m afraid that won’t be possible just yet. Of course, once we have your contribution and you become a member, almost anything is possible.“
    The way Wyeth ended her sentence, I had the feeling she was referring back to the nail across the palm, and she smiled as I was thinking it.
    I said, “Lots of ways to solicit contributions to all kinds of causes.“
    Frost turned to ice. “Yes, well, I’m sure you may wish to think over your intentions, Brother John, and perhaps get back to us?“
    I stood up. “The Reverend won’t be in on the tapings, then?“
    “I beg your pardon?“
    “Your husband, the pastor. He doesn’t do the TV and radio stuff?“
    “Not today’s,“ Wyeth said, turning to a stack of correspondence on her desk and pressing a button to get Brother John escorted the very blessed hell out of her office.

    Back in the car, I decided that I hadn’t handled things very well with Sister Lutrice, but that there probably wasn’t a way to handle it well. The primary skill of a phony is to spot another one. “John Francis“ wasn’t going to be fooling her, though by the same taken she wasn’t going to be fooling me.
    Not holding a lot of hope for the tent meeting that evening, I figured I’d have to find some other way to check out Little Mercy Key. From what I’d seen so far, that way would probably have to be by water.
    I continued north to Key Largo, asking around at several marinas about renting a boat. It took about three minutes for the people at each yard to realize I didn’t have a clue about how to navigate the waters and that they therefore might not be seeing their boats again. After two hours of that, I was hungry, so I stopped at a place on the median strip for a crabmeat salad.
    After lunch, I drove south on Route 1, hitting the Mercy K ey Marina . I thought since it was relatively close to Little Mercy, the navigation wouldn’t be that much of a problem, and if it was, I might even be able to just row past it.
    I pulled into the parking area. There was nobody around with anything that looked like a boatyard uniform, but a wiry man of sixty or so stood at the fish sink, cleaning one of three speckled, flashy fish, the body shape of a mackerel and about twenty inches long. Approaching him, I couldn’t see his hands through the tough work gloves, but the liver spots on the backs of his forearms made me push his age northward, especially since the black hair ended in snowy white sideburns. About my height, he was wearing wraparound sunglasses, which made his eyes impossible to read. He also had an avid audience, five pelicans that were mostly brown and a heron about three feet tall with a snaky neck, white feathers, and black legs.
    I stopped a respectable distance away as he used the fillet knife. “Nice catch.“
    He moved his head toward me, then back to what he was doing. “Thank you.“ The voice was gravelly but commanding, like he’d once used it, maybe had to overuse it,