Warnings: Spoilers for all episodes including "Soldier's Heart". Rated for suicide attempt. Continuation off the end of "Soldier's Heart" NOTE! I did not see the teaser for 3-17-08, my DVR cut it off. And I don't know how long before Eva is in on the secret. So this is entirely AU as of Monday.
Omar started to get really worried.
He'd expected John home by about ten o'clock. John would wander into the bar, hang out until closing, then slip into the back room, which was actually an entrance to their living space upstairs. Though Omar had the second floor, and John the third officially, they shared the spaces. But ten came and went without John.
Then closing came and went.
Omar closed up the bar, then went and bolted the street entrance to the apartments. He sat at the piano, passing the time with little jazz variations. This was the signal, Omar's signal to John that he wanted to chat. The bolt couldn't be opened from the outside. John would have to come through the bar and Omar would be waiting.
It was the wrong side of two before he heard the key scraping in the lock. The door opened with a bang, flung against the stop. Though he was expecting John's entrance, he still jumped. John staggered into the bar. Omar looked up at him in shock, but the man didn't stop, simply wandered past, unseeing, bouncing off the half-wall, and on into the back room.
Omar hesitated. He hadn't seen John looking this messed up since the mid 60s, after Omar's mother Lily died. Intensely worried now, Omar quickly killed the lights in the bar and followed John.
He found the erstwhile detective wandering about the back room, singing softly to himself.
"John," Omar called. "John," he repeated. "What happened?"
John ignored him, mindlessly singing one phrase over and over again.
Omar edged closer to hear.
"Even old New York, was once New Amsterdam, why they changed it I can't say, people just liked it better that way…" John barely made any noise, but Omar recognized the song from when it had been covered by some college band almost twenty years ago. John had laughed his ass off over it then.
Omar went for broke, coming right up behind John and putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "Dad," he called.
John's head came up, and turning, his bloodshot eyes focused in on Omar for the first time.
"Dad, what's wrong?" Omar asked, his voice steady and concerned.
John chuckled, a broken humorless sound. Omar felt a little relief that he didn't smell any alcohol on John's breath.
"Nothing. Everything." John's voice was shaky and raw.
Omar gripped his arm. "Tell me." To his everlasting surprise, John's eyes seemed to shine, like the man was about to cry, only he didn't. It was a hectic expression. Omar knew that John's recent case had stirred up the man's memories. There was a lot of war in the last four hundred years, and John had experienced most of it. "Is this about that vet?" John shook his head. "Then what is it?"
Again, John made that hoarse laugh, the sound of irony for the ages. Giving his son a death's head grin, John finally answered, "She's married. She's married!"
Omar was floored. "The doctor?"
John nodded, pulling away. He stumbled to the nearest wall, and banged his head against it once before turning to lean on it, looking at Omar with a face like death warmed over. Raising a hand in mockery of a priest, he intoned, "What God has joined, let no man sunder!"
Omar winced. Sometimes that old-fashioned religion of John's reared it head at the worst possible times. "Ok, so she's married. That doesn't mean…"
"Doesn't it?" John snapped, focusing his anger on Omar.
Omar's posture stiffened. He wasn't about to take this crap from John. Sometimes, Omar felt like HE was the father, and John the son. "First of all, not everyone gets married in the church anymore. Secondly, you're still not one hundred percent sure she IS The One. Third, if she is, you don't know if that marriage is solid or not." He paused, then added, "I can't believe your due-diligence didn't find this."
John winced and let his knees buckle, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. "She uses her maiden name."
Omar rolled his eyes. "Look, you don't know enough to get crazy like this. C'mon, let's get you upstairs." He hauled on John's arm, pulling the man to his feet and supporting him up the stairs to his own apartment. Number 36 looked at them with a puzzled doggy expression as Omar helped John divest himself of coat, holster, badge, and shoes. He pushed his father into the bed and dropped a blanket over him. "We'll review everything in the morning, see what we can't figure out," he offered, but John ignored him, turning his face away.
Omar sighed and left the man to his depression.
The next day, for the first time in forty years, John Amsterdam called in sick to work.
Omar found 36 whining by the door to the street, and with a sigh, walked the dog himself. The door to the third floor apartment remained closed. Omar let the dog into his own place for the day.
Omar was forced to walk 36 again the second day when John still didn't leave his apartment. He could have sworn he heard movement, but the man didn't so much as poke his head into the bar to wave.
Climbing up the stairs after closing, he knocked on the door, but got no answer. Irritated, Omar decided to let John have his sulk.
Omar was just opening up the bar on afternoon of the fourth day, still waiting for John to stop sulking and take care of his own damned dog, when the brunette walked in. She had a sleek, confident air about her, like street cat or a….
"Omar York?"
"That's me."
She flipped open a little leather folio to flash her gold shield. "Detective Eva Marques."
… a cop.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you have some time," she asked, politely enough.
Omar hung his affable-jazz-man persona on and answered, "I have time enough now, detective, but I can't figure what questions you might have. I haven't had any problems here in the bar in ages."
"No sir, it's not about your bar." She settled into a tall bar chair, letting enough of a pause go by, that had Omar not been totally familiar with the interrogation technique thanks to John, he might have started to get nervous. As it was, he simply and wordlessly poured Detective Marques a glass of water, placing it on the bar in front of her. Her eyes flicked to his face as she realized he wasn't going to play the right part in this little scene.
"I'm wondering what you can tell me about John Amsterdam." She got right to the point, discarding the usual detective-asking-questions routine.
"Interesting subject. What do you want to know?"
"He has you listed as his emergency contact and his next of kin." She laid a proverbial card on the table.
"I've known John for a long time." Omar wouldn't pick it up.
"He doesn't have any family?"
Deciding to have a little fun, Omar returned, "What makes you think we're not family?"
Marques frowned a little. Her eyes searched his face, but Omar knew that his bone structure and features bore a much closer resemblance to his mother's side of the family. He could tell Marques had an ethnic background, but until recently that meant insular, so she wouldn't put two and two together to get four.
"Can you tell me why he might have emailed in his resignation from the force this morning?" Marques demanded.
That floored him. "What?" he cried. John wasn't due for one of his disappearing acts for a couple of years yet. Every ten years or so, he'd take off, make up a new identity somewhere else. Then a decade or so later, he'd return with a new name, new background, and pick right back up again. Heck, this building had been owned by John under one name or another for nearly a hundred years.
"So you weren't aware that he hadn't come in to work in several days? Our information gives this address as his home address. Where is he, Mr. York?"
Omar bit his lip, trying to decide how much to give away. Marques's attitude had turned intense with that last. Omar got the feeling that the cop – obviously John's new partner – actually cared what was going on. That was unusual, since John usually managed to aggravate and drive all partners away in under two weeks.
Just then, 36 started barking. Omar glanced towards the back room. He'd left the door to his apartment open, so that 36 could wander his place and the back, but the dog couldn't get from the back to the bar area.
Marques's gaze followed his. She raised a brow. "Dog in a bar?"
"It's his dog. And he keeps control of it, usually." Maybe John was coming down?
"Is there another entry to this building?"
"Yeah, we got a street entrance. Next door down."
Marques nodded. Then she rose and went to the door to the bar, glancing outside. "Well, he's not leaving. Why don't you take me on up, Mr. York, and let me talk to John?" She obligingly flipped the bolt on the bar door, so no one could come in.
Omar sighed. Cops. Always had to get the whole damned story. "Alright, c'mon. But I warn you, he ain't gonna like it." He motioned for Marques to follow him.
Through the back, 36 greeted them by bouncing on Omar and barking. The bar owner had never seen the dog so worked up. The rottie whined at him, running between the back room and the stairs.
"What's wrong with him?" Marques asked.
"I don't know," Omar answered, puzzled. When they started up the stairs, 36 squeezed by them and ran ahead, up to the landing in front of John's door, where he barked and whined.
Omar knocked. "John? You in?" He heard no answer. He knocked a little harder. "John, there's a detective here to talk to you!" He and Marques exchanged glances.
"Amsterdam, it's me, Marques," she called, giving the door a thump. "Open up."
Omar shook his head. "I don't know." 36 whined, sticking his nose into the corner of door and wall. He scratched at it, clearly wanting in.
Marques crouched, examining the door handle and the deadbolt. She pushed on the door in a few places. "It's only locked, not bolted," she told Omar. With another few pounds on the door, she yelled, "Open this door, Amsterdam, or I'll break it down. I've got cause, you know!" When Omar gave her a disbelieving look, she muttered, "Suspicious behavior." Turning her attention back to the door, she called, "OK, Amsterdam, I warned you."
Omar leaned against the wall as Marques took a careful step back, then raised her foot and placed a solid kick just beside the doorknob. The force bent the door enough to pop the lock free of the jamb socket, and the door swung open.
Immediately, the sickly meaty scent of blood overwhelmed them. Marques drew her weapon as Omar dashed into the room. He was the first to spot the body on the floor, covered in blood.
Panicked, Omar shouted, "Dad!" and rushed to John's side.
Marques whipped out her cell. "I need a bus, STAT! This is Six Three Two, reporting officer down, repeat, officer down! I'm at –"
At that moment, John's hand shot out and grasped Omar's shirt.
"No ambulance," he hissed, his voice bubbling as blood trickled from his mouth. Omar used his own sleeve to wipe it away. He couldn't see a wound on John, just blood all over intact skin.
"No ambulance," John repeated.
"Stop!" Omar yelled at Marques. "It's OK! No ambulance!"
"What the hell?" Marques snarled back, but froze when she saw John's open eyes looking at her.
"Don't," John said to her. For a moment, the two cops stared at one another.
Marques must have decided to go on a little faith, because her next words were directed into the phone. "Cancel that, base. False alarm. I repeat, Cancel bus. False alarm. Right. Thanks." She snapped the phone shut, still looking at John. Her eyes flicked from him to Omar, to the pool of blood around them, to a circular saw lying on the floor nearby, its blade clearly coated in blood.
36 let out a gibbering sort of whine, crouching near the door.
Omar continued to wipe John off with his own shirt, supporting the man with one arm. The only mark on John was an angry red weal across his throat. It ran almost entirely around his neck. Tears of relief and anger rolled down Omar's face.
Finally, Marques broke the silence. "What the FUCK is going on here, Amsterdam?"
John hoarse laugh turned to a cough, spitting more blood. He managed to wipe his own lips with the back of his hand. He glanced up at Omar, his eyes full of regret.
"Failure," he answered Marques, then passed out.
Omar moaned a little, both devastated and furious. He didn't care that Marques was watching, that the detective would want answers later. All he could do for a minute was cradle his father close, thankful to that long-gone Lenape medicine woman, that her spells were strong enough to overpower John's own stupidity.
Eventually, he lifted his head. "Help me," he ordered Marques simply. With her assistance, they managed to get John into the bathroom, where they were able to clean him up, and then carried the unconscious man into the bedroom. Omar stood for a long time, watching John breath. Marques waited silently by the door. She stepped out of the way when Omar exited, heading back to the kitchen. He pulled a mop from a closet and turned on the sink, preparing to start cleaning up the blood slowly congealing on the hardwood.
Marques waited as patiently as she could, but eventually could take no more. "What has happened here, Mr. York?"
With a heavy sigh, Omar answered, "John tried to kill himself. It didn't work."
"He tried to decapitate himself with a buzzsaw! Why? And how the fuck did it NOT work?" Her voice was raised a little by the end there.
Distantly, Omar decided she must be a good cop. She didn't panic, she took every moment in stride, and only revealed her stress after the fact.
"He should be a corpse! I know how much blood there is in the human body, and most of John's is on that floor! Plus, people's necks don't just spontaneously heal up! If he'd really stuck that saw into his neck, he would be DEAD," Marques continued. Omar glanced at her. There was real fear in her eyes. "There has to be an explanation, Mr. York."
"Omar."
"What?"
"You can call me Omar. Mind if I call you Eva?"
"Not if it means you're going to tell me what's going on," she conceded sarcastically.
Rinsing the now bloodied mop in the sink, Omar nodded. "Johann van der Zee was born in 1607 in Amsterdam. He became a soldier and sailed to the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam in 1621."
Eva rolled her eyes. "What does this have to do with today's events?"
"Today, in 2008, Johann tried to kill himself. I think that might have been his first genuine attempt. He claims he's been shot, stabbed, hung, poisoned, run through, and dragged through the streets by mules. Oh, and two weeks ago, he apparently had a heart attack. But I'm pretty sure this is his first real suicide."
Eva scowled at Omar. "You're telling me that John Amsterdam is this Johann guy, and that he's been alive for four hundred years."
"That's right." Omar sighed as he finished cleaning up, setting the mop to dry in a corner. Mechanically, he filled 36's water and food bowls, then started setting up the automatic coffee maker. As the coffee maker burbled, he pulled two mugs from a cabinet. "How do you take your coffee, Eva?"
Several hours later, after much discussion during which Omar told her as much as John had ever told him about his centuries of life, Eva said, tentatively, "You called him dad. When we first came in."
Omar nodded. "He is. He's my father. Married my mother in 1947. Lily Mae York, born Lily Mae Brown. Big scandal. John was a major attorney." Omar figured at this point, Eva deserved to hear it all. "You know, then, it was all still pretty segregated. John was in the army for a while, so when I was really little, my mother and I lived pretty normally. It was easy to say my father was in the Army. After his tour was up, he moved us to Vermont. It was nice there. People didn't mind so much. Or if they did, they didn't say it to your face. But then, Mom got sick. We moved back to New York, and John brought in every doctor he could find, but they couldn't do anything." He fell silent.
After a moment, Eva asked softly, "What was it?"
Omar shrugged. That pain was more than forty years old. "Breast cancer, I guess." He saw from the wince on her face, that cancer had touched her family too.
She opened her mouth to say something, but it died on her lips as she suddenly looked up. Omar turned to see John standing in the door to his bedroom. He had on sweatpants and an undershirt, and the new scar stood out against his neck like a repulsive red necklace.
John nodded to them both, then slowly moved to the kitchenette, where he poured himself a large glass of water. He smoothly drank half of it down, then refilled it. Crossing to the living area, he sat down in an armchair to join their conversation. 36 immediately came over to press against John's legs with a soft whine.
Eva and Omar both waited for John to say something first. Finally, the immortal said, "You'll have to tell your grandson he was wrong."
"What?" Omar asked.
"Your grandson. He suspected that cutting my head off would kill me. Apparently not."
"What, like 'Highlander'?" Eva said.
John nodded, taking a sip of water. "'There can be only one'" he quoted ironically.
"Ha ha ha." Omar's dry voice betrayed his utter lack of amusement.
John leaned towards his son. "I'm sorry, Omar. I'm so sorry. It was stupid to try, on a lot of levels. Not the least of which, it would have meant I'd never see your mother again."
"Huh?"
Eva spoke suddenly, "Suicides go to Hell."
John nodded. "Yeah, I figured you for a catholic upbringing," he said wryly. Omar rolled his eyes at the woman detective, but turned back to his father.
"Why, John? Why'd you do it?"
John sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his hand. "I thought maybe since I'd at least met her, it might work. It seemed – it seemed like my only choice, since she's already married."
"I thought you had to, you know, 'join with' her?" Omar asked.
"Well, I thought maybe that Lanape woman's Dutch wasn't as good as I'd thought."
"That's not funny, John."
"Wait, her who? Who's married?" Eva interrupted.
"The doctor," Omar answered.
"Doctor Dillane? No wonder you were flirting with her! You think she's The One!" Eva pointed her finger at John triumphantly.
"You told her everything?" John groaned at Omar.
"Hey, she helped me pick your ass up off the floor and clean up the blood. Hell yes I told her everything," Omar scoffed.
"Doctor Dillane is married. And so you decide to off yourself in despair?" The dripping condemnation in Eva's voice told John exactly what she thought of that. "Marriages fail all the time, John. It's not like you don't have time to wait around!"
John shrugged. "It seemed a good idea at the time," he offered lamely.
Omar snorted rudely at that, then stood up. "It's HIS lingering catholic upbringing – he probably won't go near her now that he knows she's married. I'm gonna fix us some food." He pointed a finger at John. "I'm still pissed at you for this."
"I know. I'm sorry, Omar," John repeated contritely. Omar just grunted and went over to the kitchenette to start raiding John's cabinets.
John turned back to meet Eva's pointed gaze. "Why did you come here, Eva?" he asked softly.
She made a face. "The chief does not accept your resignation. When he asked where you were, I told him that the last case stirred up some stuff for you, and you needed a break. He put you on paid leave. And he sent me over here to find out what was up." She cocked her head, looking at him from a different angle. "I might've come anyway." She said it as a peace offering, a verbal extension of a friendly hand.
John smiled wryly, accepting her honest friendship.
After a moment, she asked quietly, "You really cut your head off?"
"Yep. Well, tried to," he answered likewise as softly.
She frowned. "And it just….healed right back up?"
John looked away, towards the bookshelves that lined one side of the room. Quietly, he said, "For him I sing, I raise the present on the past, (As some perennial tree out of its roots, the present on the past,) With time and space I him dilate and fuse the immortal laws, To make himself by them…. the law unto himself."
"What?"
"Walt Whitman. It's from 'Leaves of Grass'."
"Alright." Omar started banging pots around, and Eva smirked. She stood and reached out to give John's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't scare me like that again, okay partner?"
John smiled back. "Okay. I promise I won't."
Eva nodded, then went to rescue John's Calphalons from Omar's lingering ire.
John watched as his son and his partner wrangled up the most eclectic meal imaginable. The bleak dispair that drove him to take a blade to his own neck had disappated almost the moment he looked up into Omar's horrified face. He knew he never should have done it, never should have caused that feeling in Omar. He regretted the attempt now with every fiber of his being. Omar and Eva were right – there was still a chance. He'd just have to wait and see. As Eva said, it's not like he didn't have plenty of time.
END