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girls in sequined silver leotards who leaped and spun with martial-arts intensity.
    Picking up a photocopied service sheet from a table, I stood near the door, looking for Tabitha, but saw only people cut from templates—women in skirts, with moussed pyramids of hair, men wearing jeans, boots, crew cuts. And there I was, Miss Sore Thumb, in my jeans, boots, and man’s shirt. I crept back against the windows, trying to look inconspicuous.
    As I scanned the room, a woman stepped forward to sing a solo. She was stout, with pebbly gray eyes and a clay-colored braid that hung down her back like a rope, and had an alto voice that brayed about the armies of God cutting down the wicked.
    ‘‘ ‘Mow ’em down,’’ she sang, ‘‘ ‘those sluts and queers!’ ’’
    ‘‘ ‘Mow ’em down,’ ’’ the congregation echoed, ‘‘ ‘too late for tears!’ ’’
    ‘‘ ‘Hey, feminists and liberals, this time we’re getting biblical, takin’ back the streets for a thousand years!’ ’’
    Whoops rose from the crowd. Batons spun like sparkling nunchakus. The soloist shouted, ‘‘That’s it, people! Put your hands together, and let’s get biblical with Pastor Pete!’’ The congregation applauded, the twirlers dropped into the splits, and Peter Wyoming stepped onto the stage.
    He was crackling with energy, his ruddy face flushing, his sandpaper brown crew cut bristling. He put a microphone to his lips. ‘‘Getting biblical! Yes! Getting biblical here in Santa Barbara, USA,’’ he said. ‘‘Telling those AIDS mourners exactly where they stand with God.’’
    The foot stomping and catcalls increased. He gave them a conspirator’s smile. ‘‘And wasn’t it fun?’’
    They went wild, laughing and shouting. This was a victory dance.
    ‘‘Nothing wrong with enjoying a church outing in the fresh air and sunshine. Doin’ a little slut busting.’’
    He let the thigh-slapping go on for a minute before raising a hand.
    ‘‘And now it’s back to work. ’Cause AIDS is just the tip of the iceberg, poking out of the sewer.’’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘‘And this tidal wave of depravity is a sign—a sign that we are approaching the last days of time.’’
    Schmaltz and brimstone. I tried not to listen, knowing Wyoming would anger me, and continued looking for Tabitha. Still, I heard his undertones and heavy beats. Staccato references to hell. A list of Satan’s current projects, from the teaching of evolution to the celebration of Halloween. A schedule of upcoming events: calamity, anarchy, damnation for all who didn’t buy into the Remnant’s brand of panic. And pounding beneath, the insistent, ostinato bass: We are nearing the last days. The end: It was the Big Bad Wolf of sermons, and had been since Caligula ruled Rome.
    ‘‘Let’s review.’’ He snapped his fingers at the stout choir soloist, who handed him a dog-eared Bible. He opened it and read: ‘‘ ‘There will be earthquakes in various places, there will be famines; this is but the beginning of the sufferings.’ ’’
    Congregants bent forward, fingers flipping through Bibles to find the passage, filling the room with the desiccated crinkle of onionskin paper. He said, ‘‘This isn’t news. Y’all are tracking quakes and hunger on your wall charts at home, right?’’
    A woman with pink eyeglasses held up a newspaper clipping, waving it like a winning raffle ticket. ‘‘ ‘Thousands Starve in Bangladesh!’ ’’
    He said, ‘‘Good,’’ and continued with an eschatological checklist: wars, false prophets arising, and widespread delusion—a great deception. Dramatic pause. ‘‘Deception.’’
    He tapped a finger against his temple. ‘‘Stay sharp. This is the age of the big lie, folks, so don’t believe what you hear out there.’’
    And out there was where his sermon promptly headed. The court system was a lie, he said, falsely legalizing queer sex and gun control. Science was a lie, an atheist