by Scott Blade
Right then, the firemen weren’t firemen. They were paramedics. Their number one goal was to save lives, not fight the flames.
Adonis finally spotted Ramirez. He had circled his helicopter around to the back of the compound. It was parked on landing skids in an open snowy area, waiting for her like a personal chauffer.
She scrambled to meet him but halfway she stopped and remembered that she was supposed to grab backup. She had forgotten for a second.
Along the way, she grabbed the attention of two other ATF agents who looked strong. Their names were Swan and James. They were helping the firemen move people away from the flames.
Both Swan and James were officially part of the SRT. They were Clip’s guys. They weren’t investigative, which was fine by her. She didn’t want anyone else butting in and tracking down Abel without her.
She wanted to find him. She knew that Dorsch was dead. Why wouldn’t he be? Why would Abel leave him alive?
Adonis wanted to find him first because now she was out for blood—Abel’s blood.
Chapter 22
T HE TUNDRA'S TIRES SCALED slowly over bumps on the track as they climbed uphill. The driveway was long and winding. Thick trees covered the first part. The trees were big and leafless, twisted, brooding guardians that stood eternal.
Over the crest of the hill, White slowed the truck, turned the wheel and lowered the volume on the radio with a button on his steering wheel. He glanced at Widow with a half-smile on his face as if he was waiting for something.
He watched Widow's expression.
Widow looked across at him and then back out the windshield. He stared at something he was not expecting to see. Suddenly, White's cheery personality and obsession with Christmas made complete sense.
Out across the Whites’ farm at Cherokee Hill, as far as the eye could see, Widow saw fields and fields of undecorated, untamed, and pristine Evergreens, Christmas trees. They were of all sizes and varying ages. They grew everywhere, but were laid out in a kind of organized insanity.
He saw acres of them, spanning and sprawling in three compass directions like something out of one of L. Frank Baum's Oz children's books, because of the greenness. He closed his eyes and pictured that field before Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tinman, and the Cowardly Lion reached the Emerald City. They crossed a big, green meadow filled with red poppies that made them drift off to sleep.
Not in Kansas anymore , he thought.
Some trees were half-buried in snow. Some had everything from roots to tops exposed. Some had only the tops exposed. Others were half and half. Most had lush green needles, white-capped by snow.
The closest collection of trees stood big and tall in perfect rows inside different big, square sections, which he could see were done on purpose to separate the trees. Each section must've been a different batch. They appeared to be divided by age. The oldest section being ten-year-old trees. Those were the ones to be harvested first and sold.
The early light filled the fields. White blankets of snow, topped off by the green of Christmas trees, presented quite the sight to see. It flooded Widow with nostalgia of the only Christmas mornings he ever really knew. They were buried in ancient tombs deep within his memories.
An image of his mom, alive and young and single, and the image of himself as a little boy. No father. It was just the two of them—mother and son against the world.
The trees stood majestic in the early morning sunlight, grey as the sky was. The whole farm looked pristine in a gloomy, wintry sort of way, like a storybook. He supposed that was the beauty of Christmas trees; anywhere they are, adds something festive to everything around it.
Widow asked, "What's this?"
"It's a Christmas tree farm. We grow the trees here. They’re our one and only export. Welcome to Cherokee Hill Farm, or as I like to call it, A White Christmas Farm."
"That's funny."
"Right? It's our real last name, I promise."
"Why not actually call it that?"
"Tradition. The farm wasn't always Christmas trees. Before my time, other crops grew here."
"Okay."
"We discussed changing. I wanted to change it back to other farm crops but I was outvoted. We vote on major things like that as a family. Guess now I'm glad I lost that referendum. We might not have made it through the recession if we’d been in the middle of converting everything."
"I've never seen anything like this before."
"You've never been to a Christmas tree farm?"
"No. Is that unusual?"
White shrugged.
"It is if you grew up here. I guess. Don't really know. Never lived anywhere else."
"I've seen Christmas tree lots before. The kind set up in parking lots. You know? But nothing like this."
"It's pretty cool, right?"
"It's awesome. You guys should do Christmas shows here or something like a Christmas tree tour. I bet parents would bring their kids out from miles around."
"We used to do that."
"What happened?"
White shrugged.
"Times are hard for everybody. Cuts had to be made. A big spectacle like that costs money to maintain. We used to decorate them with lights, and we hired local teenagers to drive people around on tractors."
"Shame you don't do that anymore."
Then White said something that Widow had heard before but hated because it was a throwaway excuse that meant nothing.
White said, "It is what it is."
It is what it is . Cars, trucks, trains, trees, dogs—they are all what they are. Widow hated that phrase, but he made no mention of it.
Instead, he repeated himself.
"It's still awesome."
"Isn't it? Can you imagine what it was like growing up here?"
"Bet that was something special?"
"It was. My brother and I used to play hide-and-seek in the field of trees. Still do it with my son, sometimes."
"That's a pretty great childhood."
"It really was."
"Does it always snow like this?"
"No. Maybe like every ten years. But not usually like this. This is new. It's been a cold winter."
Widow didn't respond.
They drove on another minute in silence.
White took the curves slowly so that Widow could see it all as if he was on one of those tractor tours. Widow took advantage of the slow drive. He looked left and traced the horizon all the way right. His eyes stopped on some heavy farm equipment that he couldn't identify, so he tossed it into the big tractor category.
Behind the heavy tractor-like equipment, he saw a section where trees were missing. They were cut down. Nothing was left other than the stumps sticking out of the snow.
He asked, "What's with the different sections? I mean, how do you choose which trees are ready for sale and which aren't?"
"It takes trees ten years to grow to the size where they reach their market potential. Not too big, but big enough.”
White lifted a hand off the wheel and pointed.
“Each section's a different year. That empty section over there is exactly ten years old. Those are the ones we've cut and sold for this year."
"Looks like you still got plenty left?"
"Yeah. The Christmas tree business has slowed in the last decade. Several other farms across the country have gone out of business."
"Why is that? People don't celebrate anymore?"
"That's a part of it, but mostly it's because people get those fake trees. Lots more Americans are conscious of the environment now. Those trees are more economical and, even though they’re plastic, they have repeat value. Better for the Evergreen. That’s probably how the consumer thinks of it. I suppose."
Widow nodded.
White said, "It's okay. We've picked up some of their territories, which helps."
Widow looked back out and saw White’s farmhouse come up from around a corner of trees. It was a two-story red brick house with a huge wraparound porch with a
barn off to one side. The whole estate looked like something from a Norman Rockwell painting.
Widow was shocked; there were no decorations or lights up. He figured they just hadn't been installed yet. Maybe the family was waiting for Walter to get home. Or maybe they were waiting for later in December.
As the Tundra closed in on the farmhouse, a big, white front door swung open and an old man stepped out with a big smile on his face. He was followed by a woman, younger than him, but over sixty-five. She stepped out behind him in the sort of intimate way that told Widow they must've been married to each other and for a long time.
They must've been Walter's parents. He looked just like them.
The pair stepped out onto the porch. The older man stopped at the top of the stairs and waved at the Tundra.
White waved back.
Widow knew the old man couldn't see the wave because the angle of the sun would've been reflecting off the windshield.
They drove up to the house and swung around a circular drive that wrapped around a big tree.
Off to the left, between the barn and the farmhouse, there were two other vehicles. One was another Toyota Tundra. It was an older model, maybe twenty-plus years old. It looked like it had been worn out and abused down to its bare bones, but was still in good condition.
The other vehicle was covered by a tarp, but its shape was weird. Widow couldn't identify it, not exactly. It might have been a van or maybe an SUV, but the nose was weird.
He figured maybe it was an old classic car like one of those nineteen-forties cop cars, the kind Dick Tracy would drive. Maybe Walter and his father were fixing it up in their spare time, which was something fathers and sons did together, something he would never know.
The top of the driveway, around the tree, was completely shoveled. Widow saw some concrete underneath the dust of snow left behind. Another set of tracks went off to the barn.
White parked the truck right in front of the porch and killed the engine. He swung open the door and stepped out. Widow followed.
The old man came down and hugged his son tightly as if he hadn't seen him in months, which wasn't the case according to White's story.
Close family , Widow thought.
"Dad, that's enough," Walter White said.
The older man stepped away from his son, but then the mother moved in, and it was the same story, repeated, and far worse. She threw in kisses all over his cheeks and face, which required him to bend down to her level so she could reach him. He bent down as required, as he must've done a million times before. At this point, he did it recognizing the highest point of the family's established chain of command—the mother.
Walter White greeted her in a boyish, after-school kind of tone that he might have used when he was six years old and stepping off the school bus coming home from his first day of school.
"Hi, Mom."
"We missed you, son," the mother said.
"I've only been gone one day."
"Doesn't matter," the old man interjected.
The mom let Walter go and stared at Widow. Her eyes started at the most comfortable position for a person to look naturally—dead center, which, for her, was only five inches north of Widow's navel because she stood around four-foot-five inches tall and Widow was six-foot-four.
She looked up at him like she was looking up at a high, unclimbable rock face.
"Oh, my, you're a big guy."
Not knowing what to say, Widow said, "Thank you."
"Son, who's your friend?"
"Sorry, Dad, this is Jack Widow."
Widow stepped away from the truck and closed the door behind him. He walked up to them and reached his hand out for the old man to shake first. He smiled as best he could.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
The old man was bald, with red hair around the sides and red stubble on his face. He had a squint in one eye like the old Popeye cartoon, only not as dramatic or exaggerated.
Widow had seen that squint before in older Navy guys. Usually, it was a result of a stroke where the left side of the face went numb and never quite oriented back to normal.
The old man gave Widow a huge smile and took his hand and shook it. He gave it a hearty squeeze like he was trying to impress Widow.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, son."
They shook for ten seconds and then stopped.
Widow smiled at the old woman and offered his hand to her next. She took it and gave him an equally hearty smile and strong squeeze, even harder than her husband’s.
White said, "Widow, this is my mother and father."
"It's nice to meet you both, Mr. and Ms. White."
The old woman said, "You can call me Abby. And this is Abe."
"Abe and Abby?"
Abe White said, "Yeah. We know. It's a coincidence. It's how we met—blind date. Our friends put us together because of our names. I think it was meant to be a joke. But the joke’s on them ‘cause I fell in love with her and then I did what you kids say. I put a ring on it."
The Whites chuckled, all of them. Abby and Abe carried it on a little longer than Walter. He acted more like it was a required laugh; he’d probably heard that joke many times before, but he was required to laugh out of some sort of White family SOP.
"I didn't marry her for her name. Trust me!" Abe added.
"And I didn't marry him for his name either. I married him for his money," Abby said. She looked around, eyes locked with each of the men for a split second and then she added a big, maternal smile.
Abe said, "You could always call up Patrick Mickey Mouse and see if he's available."
Widow continued to smile, continued to stay quiet, but this time, his face showed confusion, involuntarily.
Abby said, "It's Mickey. His name was Patrick Mickey, not Patrick Mickey Mouse. You made that up. And I haven't seen him in more than fifty years. The poor guy's probably dead now. Why do you keep harping on him?"
After she mentioned that the guy might be dead, her fingers added the sign of the cross over her face and chest as if she wished the dead to rest in peace or she had just said some blasphemy, and she had to repent for it immediately.
Widow didn't belong to any religion, but in his life, he’d had the most proximity to Catholicism. During his early years, most of the town he grew up in was Catholic. In the Navy, he had encountered chaplains before. His religion was the world.
Widow stared at Walter, who offered an explanation.
"He's some guy that Mom dated for about a week back when they were teenagers."
Widow nodded.
Abby stared at him.
Walter White asked, "Where's everyone? Sleeping?"
"Maggie’s awake."
Walter nodded, turned to Widow.
“That’s my wife.”
Abe also turned to Widow and spoke.
"What brings you here, Mr. Widow? Looking for work? I'm afraid we're already staffed up. Walter here already hired four new guys for the season. Too many, if you ask me."
"It's not too many. We could use more, Dad."
"No way. If we hire more, you'll just get lazy. You're able-bodied. You can help them."
"I already do help them. And I shouldn't be doing that. I'm the boss."
"Plus, your kid can help out too."
Walter ignored that.
He said, "Widow's not looking for work, Dad. I just picked him up."
"He's a hitchhiker?"
Widow said, "That's right."
White's parents both looked at him.
"I'm not looking for work. I'm just passing through. Your son was kind enough to give me a ride."
Abby said, "That's how we raised him. Always be kind to others."
Abe said, "Yeah, but why is he here?"
White interrupted.
"He's got nowhere to spend Christmas."
Abe said, "You told him he could stay till Christmas? That's a month away?"
"I'm not staying till then, sir."
Walter
said, "I didn't invite him to stay till Christmas. I just asked him to stay the night and have at least one big meal with us. It'll be the closest thing he'll ever get to a family Christmas dinner."
Abby asked, "Oh, why's that, Mr. Widow?"
Abe said, "You running from the law?"
"No, sir," Widow half-lied.
"He's not a criminal," Walter said.
Abby looked at Widow.
"Are you?"
"Technically, we're all criminals."
They all stared at him.
Widow said, "We've all jaywalked or gotten a speeding ticket or parking ticket or run a red light or whatever. At some point. Right?"
At the same time, as if it was spliced into their DNA, the Whites all shrugged nearly in unison.
Abe said, "I like you, Mr. Widow. No matter what you did or didn't do, it doesn't matter. We're not turning you in. We're not a family of snitches here."
"Don't worry, sir. I'm not wanted for anything, and I'm not running from anything. I'm just a nobody going nowhere in particular. That's all."
Abby intervened.
"You're welcome to stay with us today and tonight. No problem."
Abe said, "But tomorrow morning, you got to get going. No offense, son, but we're not running a bed-and-breakfast here."
"Understood. Don't worry. I'm not staying. I've got miles of road to cover."
"Good. Now, come with me."
"Where you taking him, Dad?"
Abe looked at Walter.
"You been up driving all night, son."
"Yeah."
Abby reached out her hands and touched her son's collar and spoke to him.
"Go inside. Get cleaned up. Take a nap. We'll wake you up."
"I gotta unload the truck."
Abe said, "Nonsense."
"But, Dad?"
"You heard your mother. I got the truck."
"You can't lift anything, Dad."
"I don't need to. Jack will help."
They looked at Widow, who looked at them—confused because he had forgotten who “Jack” was. No one had called him Jack.
Widow said, "I'll be glad to help. Of course. No problem."
"See. There you go. Now, go enjoy a couple of hours rest next to your beautiful wife," Abe said.
He leaned into his son like he was passing along a dark secret.
