Kill The Sons (Decision Chronicles #2)

By Kyle R. Keenan

          “They should never grow up.”

          Michael looked up, heart skipping a beat—I thought I was alone. A woman stood in the office doorway, tall with a long red trench coat and matching fedora pulled low over her eyes.

          Michael checked the grandfather clock in the corner. Almost ten PM. Why would a stranger come to a pastor’s office at this hour?  

The woman entered, confident strides, trench coat swishing around her. They should never grow up. She nodded to a photograph on Michael’s desk—his three sons. “How old?”

           Who is this woman? He glanced at the photo—himself and the boys up at the lake. “Four, three, and one.”

          “Handful.”

          The woman took a seat in the chair across the desk. Michael put a hand to his forehead, fighting a wave of confusion. Do we know each other? She certainly made herself at home in his office as if they did. “Is there something I can do for you? I’m sorry, but I don’t provide counseling for women without my wife present.”

          The woman smiled, a perfectly symmetrical spread of lips which never parted to reveal teeth. “I don’t need counseling.”

          The desk lamp provided the only light source, transforming the tiny office into a strange dimension of sharp corners and dark shadows with the woman enthroned at the center—Queen of the Shadows. The fedora completely concealed her eyes, leaving a perfect nose and two painted lips—red, like the hat and coat. Michael had never seen a shade of red like this before. Dark and smoldering like lava in shadow. All heat with no light.

          “Why are you working so late?” she questioned. “Church ended hours ago.”

          Michael fumbled through his papers, mentally scrambling for a way out. She seemed to miss the point about his wife—a pastor alone with a strange woman in a dark church is not a great look. “I work as a public defender during the week. Like to get caught up on work here rather than bring it home with me.”

          “Public defender. I see.” She crossed her legs, the desk light glinting off the toe of a blood-colored shoe. Even her shoes are red? “Wouldn’t it be nice to stop crimes beforehand rather than defending people after a crime’s already committed?”

          Michael’s patience waned. Why did he feel so out of sorts? As if he’d just entered the middle of a conversation and was trying to play catch up? A strong perfume wafted from the woman—something thick and musky that conjured images of wild animals and dark jungles. “If you’re looking for legal representation, I’m happy to give you my number,” he said. “We can set up a meeting at the public defender’s office. Otherwise—”

          “I’m Gwendolyn. Call me Wendy.”

          Maybe that’s what felt off. No introduction. “Nice to meet you, Wendy. I’m Michael.”

          “I know.” She laced her fingers atop her knee. Red nails. Of course. “The name ‘Wendy’ didn’t exist before the writing of Peter Pan. Did you know that?”

          “I didn’t.” C’mon lady, get to the point. What are you doing here?  

          Wendy picked up the photo of Michael’s sons. He felt a wave of apprehension that curled his toes—something about the picture in the red tipped fingers triggered all his internal alarms. “Little dears,” she murmured. “They should never grow up. Don’t you think?”

          Enough of this. Michael stood, hoping the stranger would mimic his actions. She didn’t.

          “I’m sorry, but I really have to insist that—”

          “You didn’t answer my question.” She turned the photo around to face Michael. He’d seen it a thousand times, but never had his boys looked so small. So vulnerable. “They should never grow up. Don’t you think?”

          The hair on the back of Michael’s neck stood up.

Danger.

He sensed it in the pit of his stomach, sensed it in that deep, primal place that listens for rustling in the bushes and creeping sounds in the dead of night. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know why. But the woman in red represented danger. A danger that superseded the look of a pastor alone at night with a strange woman.

          Michael eased into his chair, struggling to make sense of the situation. Got to ride this out. Just find out what she wants and get out of here. “Well, that’s a tough one,” he said finally. “There’s a part of every parent that wants their kids to stay little. But they’ve got to grow up.”

          “Why?”

          “Well…” Michael scratched the back of his head. What do you mean, “WHY?” “That’s the natural order of things.”

          “’Natural order’,” Wendy sniffed. She leaned back in her chair. He still couldn’t see her eyes. She cocked her head to the side. “I make you uncomfortable. Don’t I?”

          Michael cleared his throat, caught off guard by her bluntness. “As a pastor, I make it a point not to meet with women without my wife present,” he repeated, adding emphasis to drive home the point she’d either missed or flat-out disregarded.

          Wendy was silent for a moment. “No. That’s not it.” She ran a finger around the picture frame. “You’ve been preaching a lot on becoming men of God.”

Michael frowned. He’d never seen the woman in red before. How did she know what he’d been preaching about? “Yes…that’s true.” Where is she going with this?  

          “Rather sexist, don’t you think? All this talk of men.” She spoke the word like a curse.

          “I wouldn’t say that. God’s Word—”

          “Michael.”

          She spoke his name quietly. Scoldingly. A schoolteacher rebuking a student. “You share your name with the youngest son in Peter Pan. Did you know that? Your mother named you after him, didn’t she? I’ll bet she did. Dreamed of whisking you away to Neverland so you’d never grow up.” She trailed her fingers over the photo of his sons. “They should never grow up.”

The words chilled, dripping with cold and malignant implications. They should never grow up. What was she suggesting? Just that they forever keep their youthful life and energy?

Or that they truly never grow up?

That they die as children?

He wanted to dive across the desk and rip the picture from her hands. Pull his children from this strange dimension of perfume and shadow and return them to the light.

When she spoke again, her words were low and even, humming with otherworldly confidence. “I’ve decided you’re to stop preaching about becoming men of God.”

          Michael blinked. What? He coughed, unsure for a moment how to respond. “I’m sorry, but that is completely inappropriate. I’m happy to discuss any problems you have with my sermons, but it’s frankly not your place to—”

          “Michael.” Another scold. “Maybe you didn’t understand me. I said you’re going to stop preaching about becoming men of God.”

          “Again, that is highly—”

          “If you don’t, I’ll kill your sons.”

          In an instant, Michael’s world ground to a halt. He sat frozen across from the woman in red. Two people alone in a dark and silent universe.

Everything is so still. No change. No movement. Not even a sound, save one—the clock in the corner. Tick, tick, tick. Callously marking off the seconds one after the other.

An image filled his mind—the crocodile from Peter Pan. She’d mentioned the story more than once, hadn’t she? Now all he could think about was that crocodile who stalked Captain Hook. Relentless. Deadly. Inevitable. The sharp-toothed beast hell-bent on destruction. Heralded by the endless ticking of the clock in its stomach—tick, tick, tick.

Michael’s chest constricted. The office was so small—Wendy seated between himself and the door. Trapped. Trapped in this tiny world of perfume and shadow. But as he stared at the picture in her hands, a fire ignited in his stomach.

“Don’t you dare threaten my family,” he whispered.

She placed the photo back on the desk. “I have no quarrel with children.” She gestured toward the sanctuary. “I’m talking about them. Those stupid little boys in men’s clothing who sit and nod and mumble ‘amen’. Who stand when they’re supposed to. Sing when they’re supposed to. Shake hands when they’re supposed to. Then run home to filthy apartments, throw on pajamas, and drool in front of the TV. Sighing with relief that they can finally stop pretending to be men.”

She leaned forward. “That’s the way I like them, Michael. I like them pretending. Little boys clomping around the house in daddy’s big shoes. And here you are,” she clucked her tongue. “Trying to make them the real thing.”

Michael fought to keep up with the spiraling insanity. She wasn’t threatening his biological sons, but rather the men of his congregation.  

This is madness. Was this even real? Or had he fallen asleep working on case files? Maybe if he pinched himself, he’d wake up alone in his office with no red-clad stranger threatening the lives of his flock. But deep inside he knew this was real. Knew even his darkest nightmares couldn’t conjure up something like this.

“What do you have against this church?” Michael muttered. “Why would you want to kill these men?”

“I don’t have to kill them, Michael. Weren’t you listening?” She smoothed the folds of her trench coat. “I have no quarrel with children.” She leaned forward. “So, let them be children. Stop calling them to be men.”

Michael shook his head. None of this made sense. “I’m calling them to maturity, Wendy. To not just be men, but men of God. To love and bless their wives and children. Take responsibility for themselves and their families.”

She fanned out a hand, studying her flaming fingernails. “Onstage, Peter Pan is nearly always played by a woman. Did you know that?” She swirled her hand through the air. “Flying around, leading the Lost Boys on grand adventures. Do you know what happened when the Lost Boys got too old? In the original story? The book says Peter would ‘thin them out’.” She laughed. “Don’t you love that phrase? Thin them out.”

She paused. “Age doesn’t matter to me, Michael. I don’t care if they’re twenty-five or ninety-five. As long as they’re Lost Boys, we won’t have a problem.” Her voice lowered. “But if you try to make them men, I’ll thin them out.”

A wave of dark perfume washed over Michael and his head swam, the world swirling around him in a sea of black and dark red. When his vision finally cleared, she was gone.

He blinked, glancing around the room. He was alone. No indicator that the woman in red had ever been there.

Save one.

The lingering aroma of dark, musky perfume.

He searched his office, the church, and even the parking lot, but found no trace of her.

Only the scent of her perfume remained.  

Over the next few weeks, Michael kept an eye out for Wendy. At times he thought he saw her—always toward the back of the church. Always out of the corner of his eye. The flash of a red hat. The glimpse of a cold, confident smile.

Am I crazy? He questioned himself every week. Every Sunday as he asked his parishioners about her. Most didn’t know who he was talking about. Others said they’d seen her—always at the elbow of one young man or another—but the reports never matched up. No consensus on name or description. Over the course of Sundays, Michael gradually came to doubt her existence.

But he modified his sermons.

Nothing drastic. Nothing unscriptural. Just a little cooler. A little weaker. More soothing and less fire. The result was astonishingly positive. Smiles, thank-yous, handshakes. Attendance at an all-time high.

But Michael didn’t sleep well at night. Instead, he dreamed of the woman in red, flying around the church playing the pan flute while the men beneath her danced like little boys, heedless of their overworked wives and crying children.

After multiple weeks passed with no sign of her, Michael finally convinced himself she’d been either a mentally disturbed stranger or a complete fabrication of his sleep-deprived mind.

Still, there were times after service as the congregation gradually filed out of the old church that Michael caught a distinct odor of musky perfume.  

An early spring filled the air with unexpected life, and Michael found himself on a bright Sunday morning in March, preaching the Word with a fire he hadn’t felt in ages. Once more he experienced the bone-shivering tremble of conviction, imploring the congregation to take firm hold of maturity in God. Some in the church drew back, frowning and crossing their arms, the same thought doubtless running through their minds: where are the easy words of the last few weeks?

Instinctively, Michael fumbled inside for the knob to his spirit. About to turn the fire down. About to cool the heat.

And then he saw them.

Not the faces of those drawing back. But the other faces. Faces of men and women and even some children. Earnest faces. Hungry faces. Faces crying out, who will tell us anything good? Who will give us anything real?

Shame swept over him. So strong it nearly took him off his feet. His eyes misted over, and when he blinked back the moisture, he saw everything clearly. He looked to the front row where his wife Gloria sat with their three sons. One look in those trusted blue eyes and he knew. What am I doing?

She held his gaze, giving him that half-smile that still buckled his knees. She was the only one he’d told about the night with the woman in red. It was she who maintained the encounter was real, even when he doubted himself. Gloria gave him a slow nod. A nod that said, I’m with you, Mike. Now stop being a wuss and let it rip.   

Michael turned back to the congregation. “I need to do something.” He took a deep breath. “I need to repent. Ask your forgiveness.” He swallowed, heart pounding against his chest. “See, these past few Sundays, I’ve held back. I’ve…leashed the Word of God. Made it soft. Cozy. It’s been nice, hasn’t it?”

No one replied. They just watched him.  

“I was…afraid. Afraid of offending. Afraid of provoking.” Michael ran his eyes over the crowd.

And there she was.

Toward the back of the room. Sunhat pulled low over her eyes.

The woman in red.

She’s real.

After weeks of uncertainty, of back-and-forth, of questioning his own sanity, here she was. Sitting in a blood-red sundress, arm propped on the back of her seat.

What do I do?

Her words rang through his mind as clearly as the night she’d spoken them—Stop preaching about becoming men of God, or I’ll kill your sons.

He wanted to stop. Wanted to return to the easy, non-confrontational words of the last few Sundays. But deep inside, he knew he couldn’t. “I was afraid of piercing you. Of burning you. But this Word”—he placed a palm on his Bible, feeling its warmth radiate through his hand— “is a fire. It’s going to burn you. To burn me. Burn away all our own thoughts, all our preconceived notions…” he looked toward the woman in the red hat, feeling her hidden eyes blazing at him, “…all our fears.”

I’m going to kill your sons. The words raged through his mind. “There are those who will come against you. Those who wish you harm.” He clenched the sides of the pulpit. “But don’t be afraid. Be aware, but don’t be afraid.”

A smile spread across Wendy’s face—that perfectly symmetrical spread of lips. She slowly slipped her hand through the arm of the man sitting beside her—Billy Walsh.

Again, Michael faltered. No. Not Billy.

Go on. He sensed Wendy’s silent challenge, as palpable as a whisper in his ear. Go on and preach, Michael. Pay for your stubbornness with the life of one of your own.

His pulse thundered in his ears. How could he continue? How could he press on while a deadly threat lurked in the back row? This is a life, he thought. How can I risk a LIFE?

He scanned the rest of the congregation, and the truth came to him. No. It wasn’t a life. It was lives. Not just the lives of those in this room. But lives of those unseen. Lives of generations to come. All living and dying on decisions being made today. “I love you. All of you.” His voice shook, a mixture of strength and fear as the battle raged within. “I don’t want any of you to come to harm.”

His hand clenched into fists on the corners of the pulpit. “But we can’t give way to fear. We can’t. Fear preserves in the moment, but kills in the end. And if we don’t take a stand against it, right now, today, we are all dead men walking. And it wouldn’t be love if I didn’t tell you the truth.”

He looked to the front row. Gloria beamed up at him, blue eyes glistening with joy and pride. He smiled at her. Thanks for sticking with me, honey. I won’t back down again. Promise.   

Michael took a breath. Rolled up his shirt-sleeves. For the first time in weeks, strength filled him. “So, strap in,” he said, flipping open his Bible. “Because this might get hot.”    

For the remainder of the service, Michael preached the Word without holding back. The moment the closing prayer concluded, he made a beeline for Billy Walsh, the words of the woman in red all around him. Reverberating off the walls. Echoing in the rafters. I will kill your sons.

Billy stood—a tall, lumbering young man, twenty-six or twenty-seven. As Michael hurried toward him, the details of Billy’s life ran through his mind like a court briefing—works at the mill, supports his sick mother, overcame an alcohol addiction. Over the past year, Michael had watched Billy transform—a boy becoming a man of God.

The very thing the woman in red hated.

Billy extended his hand and Michael shook it, watching Wendy’s red-tipped fingers tighten around Billy’s right arm.

“Pastor,” Billy said eagerly, “I’d like you to meet—”

“Michael knows who I am.” The corner of Wendy’s mouth raised in a smirk that spoke more than words ever could—go ahead, Michael. Tell him what I am. See who he believes.

Michael opened his mouth, but Wendy spoke first. “A nice service.”

“Yes,” Billy grinned. “Great service, pastor.”

“But the sermon was too harsh. Don’t you think, Billy?”

“Well I…” the young man flushed, reddening to the roots of his close-cropped blond hair.

Wendy tilted her head toward him, voice icy. “We decided it was a little too harsh. Didn’t we, Billy?”

“Nothing personal, pastor,” Billy laughed awkwardly. “I know you mean well. Maybe just a little strong, y’know?”

“I’d be happy to talk with you about it,” Michael said, trying desperately to warn Billy with his eyes. Run, son! He wanted to scream. Don’t you know what she is? Could he just come out and say it? What were the chances she tried something here in the church? “We really should—”

“Billy, sweetheart,” Wendy cooed, “I’m chilly. Be a dear and grab my sweater from the car?”

Billy took off like a happy puppy, feet barely touching the carpet as he burst from the church. With Billy gone, Wendy dropped all attempt at pretense and faced Michael with a self-contented smile.

“What are you doing with him?” he demanded.

“I told you what would happen, Michael. But you didn’t listen.” She made an exaggerated pouty face. “My poor little Lost Boys. You’re too hard on them. All this talk about responsibility and self-sacrifice and the fear of the Lord. Why not tell them they’re perfect just the way they are? That will fill the seats.”

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Exactly what I said I’d do.”

“I’ll warn him.” Will that work? It HAD to work. I won’t let you have him, Wendy. Or whoever you really are.  

Wendy laughed—a cold, confident laugh. “Oh, you’re fun, Michael. As if a boy like that would believe you over me. He’s my favorite type—smart enough to be dangerous. Foolish enough to be proud.”

She turned toward the pulpit. “You think you’re big when you’re standing up there, don’t you? Ranting about not giving in to fear.” Her jaw tightened. “And then you go bluster your way through a sermon about spiritual maturity in open defiance of me.” Her voice hissed like steam from a cauldron. “How deadly to confuse courage with foolishness, Michael.” She nodded in the direction Billy had scampered. “I wonder how big you’ll feel when you show up one Sunday and that oaf isn’t here anymore. Wonder how many Lost Boys will have to disappear before you obey me.”   

Desperation clawed at Michael’s heart. What do I DO?! He couldn’t call the police—it would be his word against Wendy’s. She’d said it herself that night in his office—don’t you wish you could stop crimes before they happen? He did wish that. More than anything. But how to stop it?

Wendy cocked her head to the side, as if reading his mind. “I told you from the beginning, Michael.” She shook her head. “But you didn’t listen.”

“It won’t work. I won’t let it happen.”

Wendy laughed her cold laugh. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You could call it my specialty. But I’m fair.I always provide a way out.” She leaned closer. “Never grow up. Stay children. Spend your life in Neverland and don’t become men.”

Michael crossed his arms. “Why do you hate them?”

“Why do you I hate them?” Wendy scoffed. “Why do you love them? What child ever started a war? Beat a woman? Blew up a building?” She scanned the room, lips curling in disgust. “Every fallen thing comes through a man. And here you are trying to fill the earth with more of them.”

“What you’re describing is the very thing I’m fighting against,” Michael said. “You’re wrong when you say children don’t do these evil things. It’s only children who do them. Adult children who scream and pout and throw temper tantrums when they don’t get their way. A person who kills and destroys and mistreats women and children isn’t a man. Not by God’s standards. That’s a person who’s never been taught to be a man. Never been shown how to love and protect and build and sacrifice.”

Michael’s waning courage returned, and his voice strengthened. “You say they should never grow up. Well, they do grow up. Physically at least. And if they’re not taught to grow spiritually as well, they’ll become exactly what you described—confused and angry children. Trapped in adult bodies.”

Wendy sneered at him, and for the first time he saw her teeth. He pulled back in repulsion. In contrast to her beautiful face, her teeth were sharp and jagged. “So smug,” she hissed. “You stand behind a pulpit and you think you know things, don’t you?” She stepped closer. “Don’t ever forget, Michael—these Lost Boys are MINE.”

The church door opened, and Billy Walsh returned, clutching Wendy’s sweater.

“I’m going to warn him,” Michael said. “I won’t let you kill him.”

The woman in red smiled, teeth once more hidden beneath crimson lips. “He won’t listen to you.”

Michael watched as the beaming young man strode closer. “We’ll see.”