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Gibbs slammed his car door and started for the entrance, a blast of freezing wind biting into his face as he did. It was bitterly cold already, even for December 24th, and the forecast called for even more snow.
At least the kids will be happy, he thought. It isn't often we have a White Christmas here in DC. I just hope we can catch the…
"Agent Gibbs!" A strained voice cut through his early morning musings. He had barely seen the other car pulling in behind him, but it missed a headlight and seemed to lurch unevenly, apparently the result of a snow-laden fender-bender. It took him a moment to recognize the driver: January Venable, a plump middle-aged woman Director Vance had hired to run the NCIS cafeteria. A Navy widow, she was stern and businesslike, but a damn good cook; the NCIS cafeteria was no longer the scorn of the Yard. She was good natured, but somehow still managed to intimidate DiNozzo—no small feat, considering she was a new hire.
"A little help?" she called out again, and this time Gibbs saw that she struggled to pull something large out of the back of her dented station wagon. From a distance it looked like a piece of rolled-up carpet, but as he got closer Gibbs could just make out the small body wrapped in a blanket—and the blood that covered Jan's face. She was sobbing.
"I hit him. I couldn't stop in time, and there weren't any houses, or other cars, and I couldn't get my cell to work…" her breathing was ragged, trying to cradle the body that was obviously too much for her. "I couldn't go back, and I missed the turn for the hospital, and they wouldn't take him anyway …I hoped Ducky…"
Gibbs' Marine training kicked in. "Give him to me, Jan," he commanded, scooping up the swaddled body as best as he could. "We need to get you both inside." He nodded to her face. "You'll need to get that looked at, too."
She put a trembling hand to her face. "I…I think I hit the steering wheel…either that or he kicked me…"
"Let's go."
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Gibbs got Jan and her victim safely to Ducky's capable hands, where the old ME went promptly to work. Jan's nose appeared broken, but the X-ray of her face came back negative: bruises only. The one look Ducky gave him after examining the blanketed victim wasn't good, so Gibbs offered to help Jan clean up a bit, which meant another trip out to her car for her security bag. There were several there, so he grabbed them all just to be certain, glancing up at the bloody steering wheel as he did. The air bag had obviously never deployed—which was odd considering the force needed to destroy the headlight. He mentioned as much to Jan when he delivered her bags, and she shook her head.
"I don't know why, Agent Gibbs. It was just repaired a month ago. It used to go off all the time, and now…" she dabbed at her face with a wet rag and glanced across the table to where Ducky and Jimmy labored… "now that I really needed it…nothing." She glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Oh, God, I'm so late! Director Vance will…"
"Will understand; I'll talk to him. You go get changed and have a coffee and go home. The weather is only going to get worse," he cautioned.
Jan smiled ruefully up at him. "I'll never make it home in that wreck tonight, Agent Gibbs. I know that. I'll just get a hotel room and wait until it blows over. How bad can it be?"
"Jan," he said, exasperated, "it's Christmas Eve."
"And my kids are in Monterey and Cincinnati and Des Moines, Agent Gibbs. With any luck, I'll find a room with a Jacuzzi and room service. It'll be better than being home alone," she smiled a little sadly, "or at least a lot more comfortable. I can't snuggle up under the mistletoe with Bob, now that he's gone."
For that, Gibbs had no answer. He spent every Christmas alone, except for some time at a local soup kitchen or visiting homeless shelters with hand-made toys. When he did come home, it was to an empty, undecorated house and a cold bed. Christmas was for families, and except for his dad up in Stillwater, Gibbs was alone.He helped Jan to her feet. "Let's get you cleaned up a little more, at least, and I'll help you talk to Vance. Maybe he can make some arrangements here in town, considering the circumstances."
"Thank you."
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Gibbs still cruised into the bullpen on time, the snowflakes swirling thicker outside the window. He barely noticed; they had an arsonist to catch, and the bastard had already made three Marine families homeless for the holidays. Catching him—or them—was their top priority now.Gibbs suspected that there was some pattern to how the arsonist chose his victims, but they had few clues. Cryptically-inscribed bricks flew through windows, followed by a Molotov cocktail, and the place would burn. The letters "TGFDS" were always found. A few scraps of Bible-type paper turned up as well, with "2J111" written on it, but nobody could make any sense of it. The bastard seemed to hate everybody equally: he had torched five houses, a youth center, a synagogue, and a small Methodist church within six weeks. Many said it was a miracle nobody was killed, but Gibbs knew it was only a matter of time. The last family was still in the hospital.
DiNozzo looked up at him from his desk, his usual joking demeanor gone. He wanted to catch this creep too. It really pissed him off that someone would go out of their way to torch a kid's Christmas, even if Tony wasn't much of a celebrant. Oh, he went to the annual Christmas party, and everybody knew his penchant for old Christmas classic movies, but Gibbs knew that Tony, too, spent Christmas alone. His lack of a solid love life made sure of that.
"Morning, Boss," he called out as Gibbs sailed past Ziva's empty desk. The quizzical frown and the look was the question DiNozzo needed. "Ziva's car got buried by a snowplow, so she's running late. She called to say she's being dropped off by an ‘old friend' of ours."
Gibbs grunted in return, sucking on his coffee and stuffing the last of Jan's mincemeat tart into his mouth (it had been a thank-you gift). They were stuck, and he knew it. This SOB was going burn somebody else, perhaps even that very day, and there didn't seem any way to stop him…or find him.
"Yeah, Abby, he just walked in. I'll tell him," McGee said as he hung up his phone. Gibbs raised his eyes to his young tech agent, as if to say "WELL???"
"Boss, Abby checked with Sister Boni about that 2J111 code for some reason, and according to the good Sister, it's a scripture verse: Second John 1:11 "Anyone who welcomes them shares in their wicked work." Apparently it's a warning about welcoming false teachers," McGee informed him.
Gibbs grew thoughtful. "False teachers…" he mused, "this was a punishment, then. The arsonist is trying to make a point: you had the wrong speaker, you both deserve to burn."
"But most of the places burned were houses, boss," DiNozzo pointed out, "private residences don't have guest speakers. And it still doesn't make sense out of TGFDS."
"It will soon enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs reminded him. "If this bastard is committed enough to torch meeting places after use, he'll sooner or later go after the speaker in real time. TGFDS…." He muttered. "Too long for initials, but maybe a catchphrase? Or another scripture verse?"
"Speakers…" DiNozzo muttered. "Probie, can you find any record of speakers at the three public buildings?"
"A few," McGee admitted, tapping at his computer. "The Synagogue and the Methodist Church both have websites going back a few months…give me a minute to see if anything matches…"
Something nagged at Gibbs…something familiar and ugly. He scowled at his computer screen, and then on a whim typed T.G.F.D.S. into his search engine and hit ‘SEND'.
Now, why the hell didn't I do that before? He wondered. Taking out this bastard would really make my Christmas. It would make a lot of Christmases!
A sign had appeared on Gibb's screen, one he quickly moved up to the plasma: a sign carried at a recent protest of a young Marine's funeral:
THANK GOD FOR DEAD SOLDIERS
…one of the favorite catchphrases for the Westboro Baptist Church and their funeral-protesting ministry team, run by ‘Pastor' Fred Phelps.
"That son of a bitch," DiNozzo breathed. "TGFDS"
"That evil, backhanded, scum-sucking…" McGee began.
"McGee! Focus! Why is he suddenly burning down houses and churches instead of torturing individual families?" Gibbs was on his feet. "Where were the last few protests?"
DiNozzo and McGee both scrambled for their computers.
"All over, Boss," was McGee's final answer. "There has been at least ten a month in different states for the last six months…they go everywhere, spending over $200,000 a year on protest travel alone."
"But there were corresponding arsons in Topeka, Kansas; Bethlehem, Pennsylvania; Shepherdstown, West Virginia; and now in DC…usually after protests, but…" DiNozzo began"
'But', DiNozzo?" Gibbs prompted.
"But there was no funeral or protest here in DC, at least not in the last month or so," Tony finished thoughtfully. He started poking at his computer again, glanced up worriedly at Ziva's still-empty seat, and sat back, rubbing his chin. "Now, when you hate everybody, for whom do you really want to make an extra effort?"
"Somebody who makes you look bad," offered McGee.
"Somebody who threatens your agenda," suggested DiNozzo.
"Somebody who shows everybody what you really are, or who can expose what you did as illegal," suggested Gibbs.
"A counter-protester, maybe?" asked DiNozzo.
"That only limits the field to thousands, Tony," groused McGee. "Students, motorcyclists, housewives…even Michael Moore!"
"Something closer, then, something more personal," insisted Gibbs. "Maybe a personal betrayal or a turncoat…"
"Nobody loves Judas Iscariot," Tony offered.
"And apparently the Phelps really can't stand this woman," McGee said, putting a new picture up on the plasma. "There wasn't much of an article, and no name given, but apparently she was a guest speaker six months ago at another church in Topeka, Kansas—just not the Westboro Baptist church. That church was later hit by a Molotov cocktail. The WB's said it was another attack by Jewish Nazis against Christians."
"Jewish WHAT?" Gibbs exploded.
McGee held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I didn't make it up! Phelps did!"
"Of all the blatant, pigheaded…" Gibbs was feeling more and more unChristmaslike with every passing moment. He wanted nothing more than to put his hands around the old heretic's throat and start shaking. He stilled himself and studied the partial photograph McGee had found.
"She looks Arabic, or at least Middle Eastern. See the head scarf? McGee, can you enhance the detail on the pattern? Maybe we can get some clue where she's from. DiNozzo…"
"I'm already calling both the rabbi and the pastor here in DC, boss. They would remember having such a speaker," he volunteered. A frown, moments later, told them he had no luck raising either the Methodist pastor or the rabbi. It was Christmas Eve (and the beginning of the Sabbath) after all.
The elevator doors opened, and a very cold and blustered Ziva walked in, followed closely by Damon Wirth, who carried a backpack and some bags."Sorry I am late, Gibbs. It will not happen again; I am going to get protected parking…what did I miss?" she flounced into her seat as Damon set down the duffel bag and other satchels he was carrying.
"McGee, DiNozzo, Agent Gibbs, Merry Christmas," the ex-Marine nodded to the three senior agents.
"Merry Christmas, Damon," Tim nodded. "Thanks for bringing Ziva in; how are the roads?"
"Glare ice and getting worse. I hope you guys don't have to work all day," he grunted. "I bet even the criminals are taking Christmas Eve off."
"I have never known terrorists or criminals to take a holiday," Ziva countered. "And the one we are tracking seems to specialize in spreading…how do you say it? Holiday cheer. He burns down people's houses," she explained, "and seems intent on continuing to do so."
Damon had already tuned Ziva out and walked towards the plasma, intent on the picture of the young woman. Gibbs walked up behind him.
"Something on your mind, Damon?" he asked softly.
Wirth nodded. "You trying to find her?" he asked intensely.
"We think she may be the intended target," Gibbs said softly. "You got a name for me, Wirth?"
"Name, story," he turned to Gibbs, "and current address. That's Miryam Carpenter; she's an Iraqi Jewess married to one of the guys in my old unit. She's in hiding here in DC!"
"Who is she hiding from, Damon?" Ziva had been getting quietly caught up with McGee.
Damon shrugged. "Some whack-job pretending to be a minister, I think. She said something he didn't like about Iraq, and suddenly she was a Jewish witch that was going to burn in hell for all eternity, and the sooner the better."
"You know where she is now?" Gibbs said eagerly.
"Yeah."
"You get shotgun. McGee, see what you can find about Mrs. Carpenter and any mention of her by the Phelps' organization. Tony, Ziva, with me!"
Ziva barely had time to zip her coat back up before they were out in the snow again.
"I will never understand American holidays," she grumbled. "What is so great about all this snow?"
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Mrs. Carpenter was very pale and very large, and it was obvious why she had gone into hiding: she was extremely pregnant. The Sergeant and Mrs. Carpenter were only too eager to enter protective custody, once Gibbs explained the situation.
"I don't know everything yet, but somehow you threaten either the Phelps or somebody close to their organization, and they're willing to burn down places you've been. It's only a matter of time before they come for you personally," Gibbs explained. "I want all three of you in before the bastard gets the chance," he nodded at her swollen belly, and she rubbed it absentmindedly.
The snow was nearing white-out conditions when they pulled back into the Yard, and even Gibbs had to slow to a crawl. Thankfully, he was able to pull the sedan into the parking garage and drop off his charges at the door. A slip on the ice in Miryam's condition was a disaster he wanted to avoid. The Carpenters were hustled to a conference room for a chat with both Gibbs and Director Vance, while DiNozzo, David, Wirth, and McGee put their heads together in the bullpen.
"See, Sergeant Carpenter is actually Mim's second husband," Damon explained. "Her first husband was another marine in the my unit, but their marriage wasn't recognized by our government, due to some paperwork foul-up on our end, and then he was killed a month later. His name was Nathanial Forrest."
"How did he die?" Ziva wanted to know.
Damon shrugged. "Story has it that there was a riot in town, some villagers were going to burn somebody out for blasphemy. They had the house barricaded and had already set the roof on fire. A couple of the guys broke through the mob and dragged the family to safety, but the roof caved in on Forrest before he could evacuate. He died later that night."
"Who kills people for blasphemy?" McGee demanded.
"Muslims do. This was a Christian family, and the daughter had refused to call Mohammed a prophet," Damon said.
"It seems there's Phelps all over," DiNozzo said darkly.
"Yeah. Well, Mim was already pregnant with Nate's kid, and the company clerk had dragged his feet on the paperwork, so according to the Marine corps, they weren't actually married and she had nowhere to go but back to her family," Damon scowled. "Her neighbors were already calling her names and saying she would be the next to die—the Americana—rid the earth of the evil American soldier and his Jewish war bride, and then they could get rid of the ‘Christian problem' in town when they were done."
"So, how did Joe come into the picture?" McGee asked. "I'm getting confused."
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"Let me get this straight," Vance said, steepling his fingers. "You legally married your best friend's widow specifically to get her out of the country? Did it occur to you that your marriage could be challenged here in the States? Declared invalid?"
"It did, so I made certain all the paperwork was perfectly in order. I had a chat with our company clerk that made it clear that had to be done," the young sergeant said with a stiff nod.
"You threatened him with bodily harm?" Gibbs guessed.
"That is such a crude way of explaining it, Agent Gibbs. I merely explained to PFC Phelps how difficult it is to make deals with Iraqi drug lords when one's right hand is in a cast, and you must shake with your left," he explained cagily.
"PFC Phelps?" Gibbs sat upright.Carpenter nodded. "My unit's company clerk is PFC Phelps."
"Where is he from?" Gibbs asked casually.
Carpenter shrugged. "Kansas, I think. I don't know him very well, and what I do know I don't much like. He's a passable clerk, but a loud-mouth bigot and a racist, if you ask me."
Miryam said something softly in Joe's ear, and he nodded. "I'm sure that's alright, Mim." He turned to the agents at the conference table. "Mim needs a bathroom break; Junior keeps kicking her in the wrong places."
Vance pressed the call button for his secretary, and Cynthia came in.
"Yes, Director?"
"Please show Mrs. Carpenter to the ladies' room, Cynthia."
Gibbs had grabbed his phone.
"McGee, I want you to do a search for me…"
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Two hours later…
Jan had come around the office with fresh hot soup and rolls: a welcome break from the stress of the day. The outside window was almost completely occluded with snow, and the road could not be seen from their perch.
Tim sucked at his cup with vigor, thinking of the feast waiting for him at his parent's house only three hours north. With any luck, they could close this case without firing a shot, and he could still spend Christmas with his parents and sister.Someday, he thought, it would be nice to have a family of my own for Christmas…He'd thought, more than once, about having that with Abby, but Abby had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with the arrangement. She was perfectly happy being single, and couldn't imagine complicating her own life with a husband and a house and a bunch of kids. A dog maybe, but not the rest, thank you.He sighed. It was so hard to meet people in DC…
"Oh, god, is that Manhattan clam chowder? FRESH? How do you do this?" DiNozzo moaned over the cup Jan handed him and inhaled with relish.
She poked him in the arm. "You ever hear of DADT, Agent DiNozzo?"
His eyes widened. "Yes, but…"
"Good. You don't ask, and I won't tell!"
"Yes, Ma'am."
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"Thank God for Dead Soldiers," Mim said heavily. Her face was stony, and she rubbed her belly. "I first heard those words in Iraq, when my Nathan was killed by Muslims. They were certain it was their god's judgment on him for meddling. Then, when I came here with Joe, and I heard it again from the old man's mouth…I could not keep silent. I called him a murderer and an anti-Christ, since he sided with those who killed Christians and approved of their actions."
"Anyone who welcomes them shares in their wicked work," Abby quoted softly. Mim blinked at her, and she explained. "It's a verse from the Christian New Testament that warns against false teachers. It's been showing up at different sites where you visited or spoke. You've been speaking out against them a lot," she marveled, "and in your condition, too!"
Mim rubbed her belly. "It was the least I could do to remember Nathan, since our child will never know his father. Joe is a good man," she smiled, "but he promised to let me go, if I want, as soon as the baby and I are safe with Nathan's family. We have just had no luck finding them."
"You're married, and you will just separate, just like that?" Abby was incredulous, and looked to Ziva for some cultural clue, but Ziva only shrugged.
Mim smiled. "Joe and I are married in name only…on paper. He says he does not wish to hurt either me or the baby, so we have not…." She looked down at her swollen belly. "But he is a very good man," she sighed, "and has worked hard to keep us both safe. Without him, the Iraqi drug lords would have killed us both long ago, even here."
"Here? In the States?" Ziva looked at her sharply.
Mim nodded. "It seems they have friends even here."
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2 hours, four phone calls, and an MTAC conference later…
"Major, take PFC Phelps into custody," Director Vance ordered, "I want him held on charges of insurrection, drug trafficking, support of a known terrorist group, the murder of a fellow officer, and treason, for starters. Let's see how many protests his Topeka clan can support without his drug money coming in, too."
"My pleasure, Director Vance," the Major said.
"Captain Atkins? Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS here in DC. Have I got a Christmas warrant for you… You're gonna be the most popular man in Topeka by this time tomorrow…" Gibbs said with relish.
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Gibbs fairly ran down the stairs. The case was closed, the perps were being rounded up, and it looked like he could get home to a quiet glass of bourbon and some boat time after all. Maybe he would turn on the old tape of his daughter playing the piano, or singing in the church choir when she was six…
"Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, let's get you to a safe house for the night. Everybody else: go home, and drive safe! It's…." he finally noticed the glare white of the window, and the total absence of anything beyond it. "It's terrible out! Leon, what happened? Did all the politicians run out of hot air? We aren't supposed to get weather like this in DC!"
"Good lord love a duck! How am I supposed to drive three hours through that?" McGee exclaimed.
"My car!" moaned Ziva. "Again!"
"GIIIIIBBBBBSSSS!!!! Make it go AWWWAAAYYYY!!!!" wailed Abby. Coming from New Orleans, she had NEVER seen this much snow at once; it was quite a shock for the southerner.
"I wonder if the smaller cars are like mini moguls now," mused Tony.
"Sheesh, you'd think these people had never seen snow," grunted Damon. "This is nothing compared to the blizzard of '03 in the Great Lakes!" He grabbed his coat.
"GET COMFORTABLE PEOPLE," Vance suddenly boomed from the railing. "THE STATE AUTHORITIES JUST CLOSED THE ROADS. NOBODY LEAVES!"
A collective wail of disappointment rose from every throat in the bullpen. "BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!"
Vance leaned over the railing. "Ho…ho…ho… boys and girls. We're stuck here. Make the best of it!"
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Everybody groused, those who had families waiting for them at home most of all. Those who did not have families waiting still groused, but silently, preferring to not have their loneliness exacerbated by being forced into a holiday gathering they had not chosen.The holiday gift exchange had gone down the week before, so actual Christmas presents were out. Nobody had thought to bring much beyond casual snacks: microwave popcorn, granola bars, sodas and the like, and the sandwich machine quickly emptied. Jan came around with a large tray of lasagna and a pot of hot eggnog, for which she was loudly blessed. It was then that DiNozzo finally noticed the swelling around her eyes and nose; she sported a pair of shiners.
"What happened to Jan?" he wondered out loud.
"Car accident this morning on the way into work," Ziva explained. "She hit a kid."
"Oh, God, and I thought my Christmas sucked," Tim commiserated. "Now I don't feel so bad. Did the kid make it?"
"Unfortunately, no, Timothy," Ducky appeared. "We couldn't save the little tyke. There never was any real chance, I'm afraid. Jan and the Director have been having quite a row with local authorities since she got in, and she's understandably upset."
"So what now? I mean, it's Christmas Eve. What are we gonna do?" Abby whined.
"I can make paper ornaments," Tim offered. "I once made a paper chain that went all around the living room.
"Ohhh, I bet I can come up with some tinsel from my lab!" Abby squealed.
"I'll get some good movies going in MTAC!" shouted Tony. "Popcorn!"
"I can show you how to carve wooden animals," offered Gibbs.
"I think I will have my baby now," said Mim, sitting down hard in the middle of the floor. "JOE!"
Everybody froze.
"Gloves!" Shouted Gibbs, diving for his kit. "DUCKY!!!!!"
"WHADDOIDO? WHADDOIDO?" Yelled Joe, panicked.
Gibbs smacked the sergeant lightly on the back of the head. "You bend your wife in half and say "PUSH", that's what you do!"
"OK, I can do that." Joe got down behind Mim and supported her back. "Push, Mim, push!"
"Shouldn't she take her underwear off first?" Ziva suggested?
Timothy passed out.
"Blanket! We need a receiving blanket…OSU!" Tony pulled his blanket off of his wall and placed it under Mim.
Half an hour later a sharp cry was heard from the bullpen. Ducky tied off the cord and borrowed one of Gibbs' knives to cut it. Ziva pulled the Star of David off of her neck, placed it around the little boy's neck, and sang him a lullaby in Hebrew. Tony helped wrap him in his OSU blanket, while Tim (who had revived) found some more blankets for both mother and baby. Damon kissed Ziva on the head, and Abby hugged Tim tightly.
Gibbs stood back. His team could really surprise him sometimes. Joe looked up at him and motioned to the older man to come closer.
"You wanna hold him?" He whispered. "He needs a godfather. If it wasn't for you guys…"
Gibbs took the tiny form gently… "What's his name?"
"Joshua."
"He's beautiful." Jan had appeared at his elbow again. "This is a nicer ending to today than I thought possible," she breathed.
"Everything ok with you?" Gibbs asked gently.
"Yes," she nodded. "Director Vance helped me find the kid's owner, and I'm paying for damages to their stock. By noon tomorrow, he'll be ready to eat. I had quite a stock of cooking supplies in those bags of mine," she admitted.
"We're eating a kid for Christmas dinner?" McGee started to turn green.
Jan nodded. "And bread pudding for breakfast, with the rest of the eggnog. I even got Director Vance to ‘donate' his liquor stock, so we'll eat and drink quite well!"
"Don't worry, McGee, roast goat is quite delicious!" Ziva smiled enthusiastically. "I'm sure you'll like it."
Gibbs handed baby Joshua back to his parents. "Can I see you in my office, Jan?"
She nodded, and he led her to the elevator, which trembled with a draft. When the doors were closed, he looked up, and her eyes followed his. "Agent Gibbs, is that mistletoe?"
"Yup. Abby made it for me out of stuff in her lab. In case you're interested," he offered shyly.
She was.
The end.