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He needs to breathe he needs to breathe he needs to breathe--
Henry bursts from the water, gasping and sputtering as he sucks in air, arms pinwheeling. He can breathe. He can breathe.
He can breathe.
He coughs, spitting out filthy river water, muscles already stiffening from the cold, sharp little aches in his joints protesting the frigid temperature. But it’s better than the pain his body is certain he must still be feeling, and better by far than the spinning in his head, that oh so familiar disorientation. Where is he, what year is it, and beneath that, in the back of his mind, the smell of the Empress of Africa and her crimes, of gunpowder and salt water and his own dying body. Henry shivers; the East River in March is little more than melted ice. He can feel his hands numbing, his feet, and starts clumsily for shore before he can die again of exposure.
There’s always that panic, that innate, unshakable fear-- his empty lungs, the pressure of the water around him, so often the shocking cold and the memory of pain too recent to feel anything but real. And then: the lingering fear, the confusion, the threat of his own madness dragging at him as effectively as any anchor.
The memory of that first gunshot is always so fresh; he can feel it in his chest when he breaks the surface, sucking in air. Then the conflicting certainty of warring, displaced memories, temporal uncertainty-- had he died? How had he died, when, how many times-- and the promise, sickly sweet and tempting, just behind his thoughts, that this could be the first time, that it couldn’t have all happened at all, that it’s 1814 and nothing is real.
But the skyline is real, the sharp gravel of the river bank under his feet as it slopes upwards in the water. These are real and too familiar, the brisk wind on his wet skin making his teeth chatter. He’d been facing east when he died, the sky dark with clouds and the oncoming evening; now he’s looking west, into the remains of a sad grey sunset, the blue-lit twilight creeping in.
He doesn’t always remember his deaths; sometimes, he’s blessedly unaware, ignorant until he finds himself underwater and short of air. This one he remembers with unfortunate clarity. The screech of tires, the loud, ongoing crunch of crash after crash as the line of vehicles collided, the shock of the truck veering into the bike lane, the instant of agony and impact-- oh, traffic is going to be backed up for blocks, and that bicycle won’t be good for anything now.
He spares half a moment to be grateful that Jo is still with her sister in Connecticut. While she may have to witness one of his deaths eventually, if she continues to believe she can still work with him-- well, anyway, at least it wasn’t today.
Henry drags himself fully from the river, hands at his groin as he picks his way up the riverbank, sharp with stones and littered with rubbish. There’s no one about-- which means, thankfully, there is no one to notify the constabulary of his predicament. It also means, however, that there’s no one to beg a mobile phone off of.
It’s about four blocks to the closest public pay phone. If he’s fast and lucky-- and just maybe he will be lucky enough to find some newspaper or a take away bag or abandoned sweatshirt-- he should make it, request Abraham’s assistance, and be able to conceal himself in the adjacent warehouse afterwards, full of little but rotting shelving, but at least out of the wind. He truly, truly wishes to avoid another public indecency charge; Lieutenant Reece had been quite adamant the last time.
The pay phone is still there, and seems to be in working order-- thank heavens. The cord has been ripped free of the telephone on more than one occasion, and Henry awaits the inevitable day the city removes the little booth for good.
He checks the change slot carefully, and around the base of the phone, but no, he’s not that lucky. But at least he hasn’t been arrested yet-- he’s not sure what would be worse. Spending the night in the drunk tank, or ending up in front of Lieutenant Reece with another charge of indecency with three days left in his week leave. So he puts in the collect call and holds his breath until a familiar voice answers ‘Abe’s Antiques’, in a wary tone.
The automated voice asks him if he’ll accept the call, and his ‘Yes’ in response is oddly stilted. Nor does he give Henry a moment before he goes on, “Yes, I can hear you, Henry.”
“Abe, is everything all right?”
“What do you mean you’re at the airport?”
The night’s only getting worse. Abe is speaking for some third listener, someone who isn’t Henry. Who would be at the shop at this hour of the evening, who can’t Abe get rid of with some excuse?
“You shoulda called me, I thought the conference was at least two more days. Sorry, go on, what were you saying?”
“I was in a traffic accident, Abe. I’m near the warehouse on Vermont avenue.”
“Sure, sure, I can probably pick you up,” Abe says, his cheerfulness laced with significance.
Even over the fuzzy line, Henry can hear a voice in the background-- too low to make out the sex or age of the speaker, let alone the words, but Abe’s tone is fractionally more strained when he speaks again. “I may be held up a little bit. But sit tight, I’ll work something out. International arrivals, right?”
“Conference, overseas, understood,” Henry repeats back to him.
“Don’t worry,” Abe says, and this at least is entirely without pretence.
“I could say the same to you,” Henry says gently. “I’ll be all right. Do what you need to. I’ll manage.”
“Just sit tight, now,” Abe repeats firmly.
“I will. Take care.”
“See you soon, Henry.”
He hangs up carefully, and picks his way into the shadows of the warehouse with a groan, stepping as carefully as he can among patches of broken glass and in sharp gravel, taking dubious refuge behind the industrial dumpsters at the side of the building.
He sits gingerly on a yellowed newspaper, its texture speaking of having been rained on and dried again more than once. It’s better than nothing, and he tucks his knees up to his chest and breathes as shallowly as he can.
Twilight turns to night, and a light drizzle begins-- ah, the welcoming March weather. After a struggle with himself, he reluctantly salvages some of the newspaper to insulate himself. At least under the overhang of the building he’ll be somewhat dry, but the air was chill before, and now it’s chill and damp. He rubs his hands briskly together, trying to stimulate bloodflow, tucking his fingers behind his knees after a few moments. He's no stranger to being wet and cold, but the experience is never anything but a misery.
He’s trying not to fret about whatever situation Abe is embroiled in. Whatever it is, Abraham has made it clear that he has it under control. He can wait this out.
He has a momentary glimpse of hope when he sees headlights in the dark-- he waits, cautiously, and a good thing, too-- the car is unfamiliar. He sinks back into the shadows to wait again.
It’s not a minute before he sees headlights on the road again, coming from the opposite direction this time. He realizes with a chill that it’s the same car, making a slow sweep. Not a marked security car, a scuffed and lived-in personal vehicle. He pulls more newspaper over himself, as if it will provide some sort of camouflage. He knows he isn’t visible from the street, but still he can’t shake the feeling that someone knows he’s here.
The car makes another slow crawl of the block. Henry watches it from the shelter of the bins, willing it to go on-- and cursing blasphemously when it turns back and sweeps toward him again. It pulls up against the curb and stops, in defiance of the recently replaced 'no parking' sign.
The headlights shut off, leaving Henry's eyes a bit dazzled-- the figure is just a blob of darker gloom, flickering in and out of being with the streetlights, prowling up and down the grass overlooking the riverbank.
He tries not to breathe-- it would be a blessing if he could stop altogether, the dumpster reeks of decaying vegetation and worse-- and leans cautiously out to see the face of his persecutor.
He must be seeing things; his eyes must not be fully adjusted; the chill seeping into his bones must be playing tricks with his vision.
But no, that's Jerry Charters, Abraham's friend, and he's carrying a familiar army-green bag. It could be the twin of Abe's old army duffel, one Henry is long familiar with as a convenient repository of an emergency change of clothes.
He swallows, and decides to chance it. Stand straight. Newspaper positioned for modesty. He's the son of a gentleman and there is no situation he cannot be polite in. "Mister Charters?"
The other man stills instead of starting-- an old combat reflex, Abe shows it too-- and scans Henry's side of the street carefully. He's focused on Henry even before he steps forward, away from the bins and setting his naked back to the wall.
"Doctor Morgan." Barely audible and not quite addressed to Henry. "I'll be damned."
Charters crosses the street quickly, eyes flicking both ways to make sure the empty road remains empty, and looks Henry up and down with bemusement.
"I'm pleased to see a familiar face, Mister Charters. You see, I've had an unfortunate accident, I don't know if Abraham has ever mentioned my unfortunate propensity towards somnambulism--"
"So you really do come back in the East River," Charters says, as if he's said nothing at all, and he's shaking his head even as he lifts the bag off his shoulder-- they're close enough that Henry can see that the block-print name stitched into it is 'MORGAN' and not 'CHARTERS', and he's got a hand out without thinking about it, the other still clasping the newspaper over his groin.
"I was feeling like an idiot driving up and down the bank. If Abe didn't sound so rattled I'd have thought he was pulling my leg."
Henry closes his gaping mouth, clutches the duffle to his chest one-armed. "Abe-- told you."
"Yeah."
Shock swells up in his head, hot with an edge of rage, and is swamped with confusion before it can boil over. Abe would not do this, Abe would not betray him so lightly. Whatever else he knows, he knows that.
But nevertheless, Charters is here and he knows-- something. 'Come back', he said. How has this happened?
"What has he told you?" He could throttle himself; he couldn't have said anything to make himself seem more suspicious.
"Hey, hey, easy." Charters lifts an appeasing hand. "You should probably get some pants on. Can you change in a car? I oughta move before some good citizen gets me towed."
"Yes," Henry says crisply. "Yes, I-- can. Thank you."
Charters nods, looking for a moment as uncertain as Henry feels, then turns sharply on his heel and leaves Henry to pick his way along behind him until they reach Charter’s car. Charter’s uses his electronic fob to unlock the car as they approach, popping the passenger door for Henry, and oh, it’s warm. It’s so blessedly, wonderfully warm.
He hesitates a moment, jiggling the weight of the duffle in his arms. He’s freezing, he can feel it, his body temperature getting dangerously low, his thoughts chasing each other without crystallising. Shock, mostly, and his racing heart. He’s breathing too heavily, but he doesn’t know where Charters will take him, what he even knows, what happened that Abe would feel he had to divulge his father’s secret so suddenly, if he even has-- but it’s so warm inside the car, and he decides, ducking inside all in one go, apprehensions vanishing for at least for as long as it takes his fingers to regain feeling. He fumbles with the duffle zipper and pulling out an old hand-towel and rumpled undershirt. Charters shuts the door, sliding into the driver's’ seat a moment later and starting the car.
“You have to be freezing,” Charters says, glancing over as Henry struggles to get the fabric to pull down over his damp skin, trying to dab away the worst of the reaming wet with the towel. “Here.” He reaches a hand across, flicking some sort of switch beside Henry’s seat. Henry stares at him, perplexed, and a sense of slowly building warmth blossoms under his thighs and along his back.
“Oh-- oh,” Henry says, as the heat increases, soaking into him. He slides a hand under thigh, and yes, the warmth is coming from the seat itself. “Oh that’s marvellous.” It’s tempting to simply melt back into the warmth, but his constant vigilance won’t let him.
“I take it that old clunker Abe’s driving these days doesn’t have heated seats.”
“No, no it doesn’t.” Jo’s vehicle might, however, he thinks he can remember a button with a design much like the one Charters had just switched. He gives up drying his chest, and slings the little towel around his neck. He can use it to get the rest of the river out of his hair once he's dressed. “What a sensible invention.”
“Well, life is of surprises, isn’t it.” It’s a dry delivery, but frankly, all things considered, Charters seems to be taking everything quite well.
“Indeed it is. Although some days more so than others.” He finally succeeds in getting his shirt pulled down in the back, and quickly searches the bag for a change of pants.
“You’re telling me. It was one thing to know you were. Well. You. It’s another to see it happen. Not that I saw anything, really, but there you were, buck naked and wet from the river.” He shakes his head slowly, staring out at the dark, shapeless line of river.
“Yes, well.” Henry bits the words off, flooded again with adrenalin, his hands shaking more from nerves now than cold.
He knows Abraham would never betray him, knows how heavily the responsibility of keeping his father’s secret weighs on Abe, knows how determined he has been to protect him, how willing to sacrifice his own comforts. But he knows too that Abraham has told Jerry Charters something-- but what, how much of it, and what could have happened to that meant it was easier for Abe to tell Charters than come get Henry himself? He remembers Abe’s careful deflection on the telephone, for the benefit of his guest.
“Abraham and I are grateful for your assistance, I assure you. Although I believe that he and I may have to have a discussion about him soliciting your assistance for tonight.” It comes out tense and tight. He’s not angry with Abe, not truly, knows there must be some terrible mitigating circumstance, but it’s hard to remember that with his heart racing, when he can feel his life in New York unspooling beneath him.
"Don't be so hard on Abe, you know? We all thought we were going to die. We all said a lot of crap we shouldn't have."
The maelstrom in his head stills for a moment, or perhaps he's only found himself in the eye of his panic. "What?"
"Back in 'Nam. When Abe told us his dad was immortal. None of us thought we were going to make it out."
"...What?"
"Get your pants on, man," Charters says, and pulls out onto the road. "We thought he was crazy. But Marco saw you at his first wedding, pretending to be his cousin, and he called me and told me about it."
"I-- you must be mistaken-" Henry fumbles on pants and trousers hastily, considering simply diving from the car for a wild moment.
"Come on, you were the only parents that showed up to that bus to see their kid off," Charters says lightly, as if Henry's ears aren't ringing with panic. "Marco knew who you were. And Abe had that picture he carried carried around, you and his mom and him. I admit I halfway forgot about it until I met you again last year-- damn, that was a start. Large as life, not a day older. Yelling at Abe like he was still a scrawny kid, too."
Charters chuckles. Henry sees nothing amusing about this. "Oh, we gave him some hell about that. On the quiet, we know nobody else is supposed to know, but I never had a lecture like that from my old man after the age of fifteen."
Henry finishes dressing in a daze, pulling on socks and slip-on loafers, straightening his stale-smelling cardigan over an equally stale shirt, trying to flatten the creases that show how long this particular change of clothes has languished in a canvas bag.
"You've known for-- forty years."
"Yeah." Charters nods. "Yeah. Abe freaked out a little when we got home, but we swore we'd be cool. What we said in the jungle stays in the jungle."
"Why did you come tonight, though?" He should have asked that to begin with. "Why did Abe call you?"
"Hung up with a police officer sniffing around-- he couldn't get away. Gave me a call, asked me if I could 'pick you up at the airport', dropped one of our old code words... didn't get to give me an address, though. Would've saved me a good hour of trolling up and down and hoping the cops weren't feeling frisky. It's all right. I'll drop you off, you've got the bag, you can make like you're straight from the flight and everything'll be all right."
"Thank you," Henry says, not sure what else he can say.
They stop-- in the faint red light of the traffic signal, Henry can see Charters's easygoing face sober."You helped get the guy who killed Marco's kid, Doctor Morgan. We all owe you more than a taxi ride."
It's a great deal more than that. Abe likely hadn't disclosed all-- the horrible consequences that Henry has encountered when his secret is revealed. Perhaps Marco Fox and Jerry Charters have no idea what their continued silence means to him.
He is, however, grateful.
He moistens his lips. "Thank you, all the same. My son has chosen excellent friends."
"...You don't get to say that often, do you."
"Not for decades," Henry sighs. Pretending to be nothing but a friend and business partner does wear on him; it catches him out. It's not as sharp or painful a sensation as the occasions when he was forced to play at being Abigail's son or nephew, but it's still so insufficient at times. He's so terribly proud of his son and resents having to conceal that.
"You want to talk about it? We've got about forty-five minutes before I can drop you off. Couldn't get to Abe's place from the airport any faster than that, don't want to tip off the fuzz. Let me get you a drink.”
Henry feels for the inner pocket of the duffel, relieved to find that one of his identification cards and five somewhat crumpled twenties are just where they should be. "Yes to the drink. But please, allow me."
Charters nods, and steers them down a few unfamiliar streets and into the parking lot for a small bar-- Henry recognizes the name, and after a moment realizes that it's one Abe's spoken of. Usually in the context of 'Hold down the fort, Pops, I'm meeting the guys at--'
His panic has subsided and left fatigue and a certain peace. He's pleased to be admitted into this confidence between-- he chuckles to himself, realizes that he still thinks of Abraham and his fellow soldiers as 'young men'. Well. In some ways, they are.
They settle into a worn booth in the corner with some very tolerable locally brewed lagers, and under the cloak of the sports commentary coming from the television over the bar, Charters tells him the story.
1967
"Somehow I thought the second monsoon season was gonna be easier," Marco gripes. But quietly.
"It's worse because you know how long it's going to last," Jerry opines.
It's too wet to light a fire, not that they'd light a fire on a night like this. None of them are looking to get shot. Yet. Sometimes the thought comes in, though. Not often. Just when the dark is dark enough, and the rain so constant that even though it’s the damn jungle and has to be 90 degrees it feels like they’re freezing.
Abe's been quiet all day, face even whiter than usual-- whatever he did to his ankle last week it's more than a few rationed aspirin and bandage can fix. Walking's not easy for him, and they don't get a say in when they walk and when they don't. The best they can do for him is lend him a shoulder when it gets too bad.
The rest of the squad is sleeping or at least attempting to not ten metres away, but for the three of them out on watch it might as well be a mile; the rain walls you off, the sound a constant pounding on their helmets, the leaves, the pools on the ground around them.
As far as Jerry's been able to tell, nobody unfriendly's on this patch of riverbank, but then again 'as far as you can tell' gets people killed if you lean too hard on it. He tries not to think too much about that, either. You get too wound up thinking about what could be out there and it sours in you, poisons you.
"Goddamn rain," Marco says, kind of sadly. "You know what I miss?" Neither Abe or Jerry ask what, but Marco doesn’t notice, probably wasn’t expecting them ask anyway. “My nan’s house. It’s got an old tin roof, my mom used to take us there in the summer for a few weeks. Rain sounds amazing there. I thought it sounded like it does on the helmet at first, but it doesn’t. Not at all.”
He pauses, and it’s just the sound of the rain again, until he adds, quiet and hard to hear: “Nan died a few years ago. They buried her in her pearls. A set, all the matching pieces. She loved them, had them for year, wore them for all the special stuff. Church, weddings, Christmas. But part of the broach was missing, it had these two matching inset pieces, right? And one was gone. It’d been missing for years, she gave up looking for it ages ago, never wore it again after. But the whole time she was in the casket, I couldn’t stop staring at it, instead of looking at her.”
He swallows, then says, voice tight and strained, “I lost it. When I was a kid. I was eight, I should have known better, but I took it out of her jewellry box and had it outside and forgot it. I went inside for dinner. I didn’t think about it again until she noticed it was gone, and by then it was too late. It was gone. She loves those damn pearls. They decided my little sister must have taken it and lost it somewhere and forgot, because it was shiny. She was only three, she took stuff all the time, got into everything. But it was me, and I never told her, and now she’s dead.”
It’s quiet again after that, and cold even though the air’s hot, which is just the stupidest, unfair thing, and Jerry finally says because he can’t stand it being quiet--
“When I was 15, my friend Saul had just gotten his licence, and he said he'd show me how to drive. So 2 am, I sneak out, and we borrow my Dad’s car. It wasn’t much, just an old Ford. But it was his car, and my mom never drove it, and my older brother was never allowed to drive it. Just Dad. But we took it, and I hit a mailbox taking a turn because I’d never driven anything before and had no damn clue what I was doing. Scratched the paint all up down the passenger side. Not too bad, really. The mailbox was toast. We stuck a twenty in it and left. Shit, I thought the cops were going to be coming for me for months.”
He shakes his head. “We just put the car back in the garage like nothing had happened. Didn’t sleep that whole night, just lay there sure I was going to get caught. Went down for breakfast the next morning. God, I felt so sick, and I was so damned mad at Saul, like somehow it was his fault. And. Heh. Nothing happened.”
He shrugs, dumping rain water down the back of his neck. “Nothing. Not that whole morning, not that whole night after school. Not the next day. Wasn’t until the third day, after work, that Dad noticed at all, started shouting about it. But he didn’t think it was me. Didn’t ask, didn’t even look at me. Started cussing out whoever’d parked beside him at work, and I just let him go on thinking that. For the rest of his life he might think that, because I never told him how dumb I was, not even when he used it to teach me how to drive a few months later. I was just so relieved he never asked me, I never wondered what he might have said to who he thought did it. I was just so glad not to be caught.”
There's a long silence, and then Abe says out of nowhere, low and angry: "My dad can't die."
"...what?" asks Jerry and,
"What?" asks Marco.
"He can't die. He just comes back."
"Yeah, my old man's pretty sturdy, too," Jerry tries, because something about the way Abe is staring at the river makes him uneasy, and he doesn't know why.
"No, not like that." Abe's voice is low and tired, there's something heavy on him. "You've seen the picture. He's not a heavyweight." He doesn't pull the picture out, doesn't risk letting the rain get to it, but they've seen it. Sweet white lady, dapper white man, round white baby Abe, in front of a walkup apartment. And he's right, his father looks like a pushover.
"He's gotten killed before. But he comes back. Just pops back up in the river like nothing happened. I've never seen it, but it's true. Mom saw him die."
"Abe," Marco says, kindly. "Abe, that's bullshit. You know that's bullshit."
"He's more than a hundred years old. He's never going to die," Abe says. “It’s a secret. He’s been keeping it a secret since before mom was even born. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I go home and get old and he doesn’t. He’s my dad.”
"Worst ghost story I ever heard," Jerry says. He shares a worried look with Marco.
"Yeah, you need a missing hand in there or something. You ever heard the one about the new woman who came to teach in the little town?"
"Yeah, we heard it," Jerry says, as loudly as he can risk, trying to sound casual. Abe's not crazy, he's not a coward. This isn't like him. Abe the Knave, that's him, flirting down the town and sharking the whole platoon at cards.
He's still staring out at the water. "If I die out here, I'm not coming back."
"Well," Marco puffs. "Well, you aren't gonna die."
"That's right," Jerry promises. "That's right." He clears his throat. "You're a couple of idiots trying to tell ghost stories on a night like this. Now what we should be talking about is this girl I know named Maureen. Mo... reeen."
"Christ, we’ve heard about Maureen," Marco gripes, and Jerry ignores him.
"White girl, red hair, full of trouble..." He elbows Abe in the side. "Let me tell you about Maureen."
It was more than fifteen years later when Jerry got the call, Marco Fox about to have a fit. He'd been at the wedding-- Jerry could hold a grudge all day long and wasn't about to go see Maureen get married to another man. So he hadn't gone.
But Marco had.
1978
"You remember what Abe said about his old man?" Marco demands over the phone. He sounds shook up.
He'd said a lot about his dad. Old money, played the piano, not a jazzman, took him out to ballgames--
"He was at the wedding."
"Well, sure."
"But listen, he was the guy from the photo Abe carried around in 'Nam."
"Well, sure."
"No, I mean he was exactly the same. And he was way back in Abe’s family section, not standing up front. Abe said he was a cousin."
"...so he's got a cousin who looks like his dad, do you have a point?"
"No, you're not listening, it was his dad. The guy from the photo, the guy who put Abe on the bus, but he looked exactly the same. It's been ten years, Jerry, he didn't age a day."
And Jerry remembers what, exactly, Abe said about his dad. A chill goes up his spine, as far as they are from the jungle and the late-night secrets, he can almost smell the mildew and hear the rain. The same ghost-story uncertainty, in the light of day.
"Marco, are you sure? You know all you people look alike." He doesn’t sound as smooth as he wants to, and Marco can hear it.
"Jerry, it was like seeing a goddamn ghost, okay?"
"All right. So... what do we do about it?"
That takes the wind out of Marco's sails. "Well, nothing, I guess. Abe said it was a secret."
"So we let it go?"
"We let it go."
And he had.
"Right up until the day Abe brings me back to his house, and there you are," Charters finishes. "Large as life. Same guy from the photo, same guy who put Abe on the bus. Same guy Marco saw at the wedding. Thought maybe it was just a family resemblance, but man, you acted like his dad. Read him the law like he came home drunk on a school day."
"Well," Henry says, a little abashed. "Even a good friend would hardly have condoned breaking into a private yacht..."
Charters just shakes his head.
Perhaps he had been a bit... well. It's difficult not to worry about Abe. And he knows he hasn't always been the best example, and he blames himself and it makes him defensive.
He clears his throat and checks his watch. "I think we could believably have made it home from the airport by now. Shall we-?"
"Sure thing. Thanks for the drink, Doc."
Henry doesn't object to the nickname. He and Charters may not know each other very well, but as a close friend of Abraham's he is by extension in Henry's good graces. Not to mention, he has rescued him tonight. He raises the last of his beer in a silent toast before he drinks it, leaving a twenty on the table without waiting for change.
The ride from the bar to the antique shop is companionably quiet; Jerry tunes the radio to a rock station-- laughs a bit at the look at Henry’s face when at the commercial break the station identifies itself as ‘classic’ rock.
“Always makes me feel old, too,” he chuckles.
“I felt like an old man hearing this for the first time,” Henry grumbles. “Nothing but noise.”
Jerry grins and shakes his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I guess if it doesn’t have a lute in it it’s not real music--”
“Now, Mister Charters, I am aware of the shortcomings of the American educational system, but I know that you know the difference between 1014 and 1814--” Henry puffs in mock offense, and catches himself chuckling in a way he has only ever been able to do with Abe for the last thirty years. He freezes, his terror catching back up to him. He can’t feel like this. The freedom of not bearing a secret on his shoulders is too enticing, too giddy.
“You okay?” Charters asks, and after a moment of Henry being too busy breathing to answer, he answers for himself. “...This really is hard for you. No wonder Abe worries so much.”
“He shouldn’t worry about me. I’m his father. He never should have had to be my caretaker.”
“But that’s how it is, Doc. That’s how it goes. I took care of my parents. Mom couldn’t live alone at the end. That’s just what happens.”
“But I don’t age. I’ll never have a lingering illness, never run senile. I’ll never be old.”
“Just really scared.” Charters nods, and they lapse into silence.
For Charters this is all certainly an unseemly display of emotion-- young men (...old men) have all been all trained to be stoics, these past few generations. For Henry’s part, he’s simply overwhelmed with the revelation-- of his secret, of how close Abraham had been to death all those years ago. He’s full of worry for himself and for his son, the lurking fear of what the police know and why they kept Abe from coming to him.
That last fear becomes primary as they pull up to the antiques shop: while the car at the curb is a private vehicle, not a cruiser, it doesn’t belong to any of their neighbors. And the lights in the shop are still on, although the sign has long been flipped to ‘closed’.
“All right,” Charters says uneasily. “So the story is I picked you up at the airport, we came straight here.”
“Yes. And Abe managed to convey that I had been in a medical conference overseas, which I left early.” A simple subterfuge, like any one of the ones he’s used dozens of times in the past. It’s both more and less nerve-wracking to have another conspirator in on the game.
They plaster on appropriately tired, bland expressions, and stroll into the shop.
“Abe? Are you still up?”
“Henry!” There’s a high edge on Abe’s voice, a little too nervous, a little too audibly relieved. He straightens-- he’s been leaning over the counter doing paperwork. Next to him, Lieutenant Reece stands up and smiles serenely.
“Doctor Morgan,” she says. “Good to see you in one piece.”
“Hell of a thing, Henry. You know how your bike was missing this morning? Yeah, the poor sap who did it got caught in an a pileup on West Street, a vehicle went spinning over onto the Greenway. The cops saw it and thought you’d been in the accident--”
“I saw what was left of your bicycle,” Reece adds. “I can’t imagine anyone walking away from that mess.”
“How dreadful,” Henry says, trying to sound natural. “No, no, I’m sorry to have worried you, Lieutenant. It was stolen only this morning; Abe told me on the phone. I’d meant to file a report once I got home.”
“Well, we’ve been doing that now,” Abe says. “So no worries. How was the homeland?”
Britain, the phony conference must be in Britain. He can’t think of any large conferences in the area this time of year so it must be a small affair... he slots the details away to use as needed.
“I didn’t have much time for tourism; I was trying to keep a tight schedule. Rather a wasted trip, as it turns out; the lecturer I had wanted to see became ill and I didn’t see the use in staying any longer. I ought to have called you, Abe, I apologize.”
“S’all right. I just wish you’d let me know, I could have been there instead of bothering Jerry. Thanks, Jerry.”
“Any time,” Charters says casually.
“You made good time from the airport with the traffic like it is,” Reece notes. “The accident still has things backed up at least half an hour.”
Henry’s blood runs cold. Beside him, Charters shrugs philosophically. “I know my way around.”
“A creative, if unorthodox chauffeur,” Henry agrees, his smile feeling tense and stiff. “But much appreciated-- can I get you a cup of tea, Mister Charters? Lieutenant?”
“No, time for me to get home,” Charters demures. Reece shakes her head in a similar negative.
Feeling on slightly more solid ground, Henry shakes Charters’s hand, and goes to sort the paperwork on the counter. Abe comes around the desk to talk to Charters in hushed tones, and Henry slides in next to Lieutenant Reece, mustering all his charm.
“I’m terribly sorry about the misunderstanding, for any worry. It was kind of you to come over personally to look in on me--”
“Henry, I consider you part of my team,” Reece says warmly. “I look after my people. I’m glad everything’s all right.”
“If there’s any further paperwork, I’d be happy to come by the station tomorrow--”
“No, I think I’ve got everything I needed. Get some rest.”
“Thank you. Ah, Abraham, let me help you with that--” There is no ‘that’, but the two friends are in worried, hushed conversation and he needs to make sure that everything is in order for his own piece of mind.
With a careful glance back to see that Reece is still gathering her things, he joins the little huddle.
“I tried to lose her, Henry, but she just kept sticking around,” Abe mutters, with his own glance back. “When I said I was going to the airport, she almost invited herself along. It’s like she knows something.”
“I understand. I wish you had told me… that there was a chance someone else would come along.”
“She didn’t exactly give me the chance!”
“You’ve had four decades,” Henry chides gently, and Abraham deflates.
“Yeah, well. I didn’t think it would come up. And. You know.”
“It was a complicated time,” Charters summarizes it neatly.
“Sorry, Henry.”
“You’re forgiven. I would have forgiven you then,” Henry tells him, but from the corner of his eye he can see Reece beginning to make for the door, and them, and he can’t say more.
“Good night, Lieutenant,” he says brightly, and all three of them, Abe, Charters, himself, favor her with charming, innocent looks.
“Good night, gentlemen.” Reece smiles at them, and touches Henry on the shoulder. “You should make that tea for yourself. I hear the river’s freezing this time of year. And try to be more careful, all right?”
A horrified silence falls.
She pats his shoulder again, her lovely eyes sparkling with mirth. “I know everything that goes on in my precinct, Henry.”
And as she makes for the door, leaving the three men frozen in her wake, Henry hears her muttering “Medical conference, my ass,” to herself.
The door shuts behind her, and her car starts and pulls away before any of them can bring themselves to move.
“... so let’s never mention this again, right?” Abe says weakly.
“Sounds good to me,” Charters agrees. “Abe, I’m out. Doc… you have a good night.”
“Yes,” Henry says, shaken. “Yes. That’s-- some rest will do us all a world of good.”
And he is going to have that tea. Because the water was freezing.