The sea was rough in Henry's dreams tonight, pitching him forrard and aft in a storm of creaks and groans. Men shouted; oak strained and bowed; calico sail whipped back and forth. The cries of the slaves were smothered beneath the wind's howl, and salt water drenched Henry's face.
He opened his eyes onto his bedroom in the twenty-first century and sat up. He had wept in his sleep, again. What did it mean?
His watch showed early morning. Henry shook himself and rose. He would note the tears in his journal, later, and see if there was a pattern to this new phenomenon, although none presented itself.
Meanwhile, he was in New York, it was a cold February day, and there was work, blessed work, that allowed escape from his trap of rejuvenating flesh for a time. At work, calculating the history of deaths, he could be a mind set free, and forget his long, long past.
Ten hours later Henry was exhausted and ready for home. His antiques shop soothed him, made him feel young and old at once, which was the strange truth, and perhaps tonight he would have a glass or two of aged wine to dull the loneliness and send him off to sleep.
Reaching for his coat, he congratulated himself wryly on surviving another day, before the scrape of the door made him look up to see Jo Martinez wearing her black coat and gleaming badge. She was as striking as ever, with her bold eyes, and lips the colour of a ripening fig, fresh from the Indies, but now she was glowering at him. And at once Henry knew that something was very wrong.
"Where's John Doe 1984?" Jo asked, striding into the examination room. The medical examination room was depressing, as usual, but Henry Morgan, ME to the NYPD, was immune.
Henry said, "Good afternoon, detective."
He always greeted her that way. In conversation he called her Jo, but for hellos and goodbyes she was her title. It was his way of keeping her at a distance, she guessed. Whenever there was a danger that the two of them might progress from being colleagues to friends, or more, the formality appeared, pushing her gently back.
"Henry, hi. We have a problem."
"John Doe 1984 is in the mortuary awaiting clearance for cremation." Henry put on his coat, buttoning it precisely, as if it were one of his instruments. "The parachute-type apparatus has gone to Evidence."
"What did he die of?"
"Old age," said Henry drily.
"What?"
"That and the eight hundred foot fall onto concrete and ice. But I think it was the age that got him in the end."
She shook off his attempts at humour. Why was Henry joking about it? He never wisecracked about death. She frowned at him. Slightly unshaven, the dark stubble tinged with silver; only a shadow of his usual regretful smile about the mouth; heaviness around the bright brown eyes: he was not sleeping, again. No clue why that brought out his sense of humour, but whatever. "Take me to him."
He inclined his head. and led the way. "What's wrong?"
"The Lieutenant called me in specifically about this one. Solve it quick. Because of the location."
"Ah yes. the location."
Most unidentified suicides do not take off from the top of the Rockefeller. The tourists skating below were equal parts traumatized and skilled with Instagram.
"The chief wants us to redouble our efforts, that's your efforts, at finding his identity." Jo rolled her eyes.
"Very well."
Henry yanked open the drawer marked 1984. "Oh. Well, there we might indeed have a problem."
Jo peered in. "Oh."
The drawer was empty. The body was gone.