"My God, you're an Immortal," Jo said. She stood frozen to the spot at the top of the stairs of the rooftop terrace.

With a hopeful smile and his brow slightly wrinkled, Henry extended his hand to her. It took a few moments for her brain to tell her hand to grasp his. Her legs finally worked enough for her to clear the landing and allow him to guide her back over to the dining table. He eased her back down into the chair she had vacated only moments before and sat in the chair next to her again. A questioning Abe caught his eye and with just a minute shake of his father's head, Abe understood and left the roast duck covered and descended the stairs to the living quarters below. Henry turned his attention back to Jo, who alternately fingered the photo while gazing at it and then raised her head, her eyes moving side to side.

Henry thought it best to remain silent while she put the few puzzle pieces she had together in her mind. He waited for her to let him know when to supply her with more pieces that made up the larger puzzle of who he was. But even he knew that he did not possess all of the information she might require. For the reasons behind his never ending life, its purpose and meaning, still eluded him after two centuries of searching. So he sat with his elbows resting on the table, silently watching her with his head slightly bowed and his mouth pressed against his clasped hands. He lowered his hands when she finally turned to look at him, blinking.

"H-how long, Henry?" she asked, shaking her head. "Were you ... born like this?"

"No," he quickly replied then paused for a moment, thinking. "Actually," he chuckled, "I don't know. After having shared my secret with someone a long time ago, the person told me that I was chosen."

"Chosen," she repeated. "You mean like by ... God?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," he replied, taking slow, careful breaths. "According to him, at least. Abigail did tell me on more than one occasion that there was a reason for me being this way." He once again pressed his mouth against his raised, clasped hands.

"That makes sense, Henry," she told him.

His gaze left hers and she could tell that he was getting lost in his memories. He'd once told her it was his imaginings but she now knew they were memories. Just how far back his memories stretched was her next question.

"You weren't born in 1979," she stated, looking at the photo again then back at him. "When were you really born?"

A smile unexpectedly tugged at his lips. Nerves, he concluded. "September 19th - 1779." He let it sink in before saying anything else. Jo's eyes grew wider and wider, her mouth slightly open. She picked up the photo and gazed at it.

"Abigail. She knew," she said. "When this photo was taken, she knew, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did," he replied. "But only because I'd been stabbed in a street brawl and had died in her arms."

"You? Brawling in the streets?" she asked, incredulous.

"She'd been physically and emotionally abused by an ex-boyfriend. Spurred on by anger, I was feeling rather bricky - "

"Bricky?"

" - brave, fearless - and I had challenged him to a fight to defend her honor," Henry explained. "He, being the coward that he was, he chose to back slang it (took the back way out) and pulled a knife on me during our fist fight. He fatally stabbed me and ran away."

"And then ... wow ... I can't imagine what the two of you went through at that time," she said, looking at the photo again. "But she must have loved you very much." Jo held up the photo to eye level. "The three of you just look like any other young couple in love and with their beautiful baby."

"We were," he replied. He took the photo from Jo and studied it, his lips pursed. "For a time. Abigail was a ... a remarkable woman. Of course, that unfortunate occurrence forced me to tell her my long story much as I'm telling you right now. She accepted me and we adopted Abraham and raised him as our own son. For nearly forty years, we were together until she ... until she left."

"Did you try to find her?"

He scoffed. "For thirty years I searched for her," he replied. "In the first few years, I'm sure the police began to hate me. I contacted them so regularly with this clue or that clue that was sure to help find out where she was." He grinned mirthlessly and shook his head. "She had learned from me and our many moves on how to hide and not be found." He waved a hand and touched his fingers to his lips, indicating that it was difficult to discuss that part of his life.

Jo bit her lower lip, understanding. She looked around and then back at him. "Um ... how, when did you become ... " She swept her hand toward him and they both laughed softly. "And American English, please."

"Yes. Sorry. April 7, 1814," he replied. He related how he'd been aboard the Empress of Africa slave ship as its doctor assigned to identify ill, dying, and dead slaves, who would then be tossed into the ocean before reaching port. "Instead, I was really there to free them by passing a key to them that would unlock both their cell and their shackles."

"Empress of Africa," Jo repeated. "That was the same ship that Rick Rasmussen and his crew recovered along with $2 million in gold!" He nodded.

"The ship was the last of my father's shipping line to transport slaves from Africa to the West." He explained further that he'd found out by accident in 1812 that his father had chosen to involve the Morgan Shipping Lines in the slave trade in order to save it from financial ruin. "I was appalled and embarrassed beyond words. Angered! I immediately went to confront my father and that's when he offered that lame excuse to me," he told her. She could see that even after more than 200 years, it still upset him.

"Okay. Something happened aboard that ship that made you, that transformed you," she stated.

He nodded solemnly and lowered his eyes. "The, ah, Captain, was suspicious that I'd stolen the key and he threatened me, saying that he didn't care if I was the owner's son. That his law ruled at sea. When a crew member alerted him to a slave possibly suffering from cholera, I volunteered to examine him. The Captain, however, didn't believe me when I delivered my diagnosis, that the slave was not infected. And when I refused to step aside so his men could toss the poor fellow overboard - alive - and well - he shot me in the chest at point blank range with his flintlock pistol."

"That scar on your chest," she whispered, her eyes dropping to the spot where it lay hidden under his clothing. "What happened after he shot you?"

"I died but not right away," he told her. "Some crew members carried me from the ship's cargo hold past the penned up slaves and the key dropped from my hand. That's how they were able to free themselves."

"How did you find that out if you were ... dying?" she asked.

"Isaac Monroe," he replied with a broad grin. "Turns out that he is a descendant of one or more of them and the story had been passed down in his family from one generation to the next. Anyway, the crew members tossed me in the ocean and I actually drowned before the bullet wound could take me. The next thing I knew, I was breaking the surface of the waves alive and completely naked and completely healed except for this scar on my chest. It's the only one that I carry permanently ever since that fateful night."

Jo gasped. "Naked. Naked?" A look of realization spread across her face and she clamped a hand to her mouth then lowered it, looking him directly in the eyes. "The East River." He dipped his head deeply one time with a pressed-lip, sheepish smile. "Oh, my gosh, Henry. You did say it was a long story and boy, oh, boy, it is ... it is the most amazing story I've ever heard in my life."

"Do you believe me?" he asked. "I'm prepared to offer proof to back up my claim."

"No, Henry, you don't have to do that," she told him. "I believe you." Henry closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

After a few moments of silence, she said, "You hide from people, from the outside world in order to safeguard your secret." She placed one hand over his clasped hands and said, "It must be so lonely for you." She looked toward the stairs and added, "And for Abe."

He did his best to hide a grimace with a smile and replied, "It has been very lonely at times, yes. But ever since Abigail and Abe entered my life, the loneliness has been greatly minimized. Still have to move from place to place every six or seven years - ten, at a push - when people begin to notice that I'm not aging but ... " He paused, tilting his head and looking at her with a soft smile. "From time to time, I meet a friend. A special friend. Some more special than others," he added.

His penetrating gaze locked with hers, reminding her of the way he'd looked at her after he'd told her about getting lost in Paris with someone very special. That look, that soft smile, those dulcet tones had unexpectedly warmed her from within, causing her heart to beat a little faster and for her to end her whirlwind courtship with her billionaire beau, Isaac Monroe. She found herself feeling the same way now and unable to tear her gaze away from his.

"I would really hate to leave you, Jo," he quietly confessed, his voice dropping into its lowest register. "Your friendship means a lot to me."

Friendship, she thought, biting her lower lip again.

The change in her demeanor was subtle but he had still noticed it. Her seeming acceptance of him as he shared his fantastical tale with her was like watching a beautiful flower open its petals to drink in the sunshine but something had caused it to begin to close them again. What had he said to cause the change in her?

Friendship, he realized. He could kick himself for he also was reminded that she was just as guarded as he was when it came to letting people in. She fiercely protected her heart from getting broken again by caring about someone again. No, no, no, he had to make her understand that she meant much, much more to him than just a friend. He pulled his hands out from under hers and grasped hers with both of his, squeezing it.

"Jo, what I really meant to say was - "

Her phone sounded an alert for a text message. A distinctive sound she'd set up for urgent texts from Hanson or Reece. He reluctantly freed her hand to allow her to read the text and reply. In frustration, he crossed his arms and pursed his lips while she dealt with the text.

"Sorry," she told him. "This text is from Hanson. I've gotta call him, talk to him." He nodded and they both waited for Hanson to pick up at the other end. "Yeah, Mike. Wait, um ... Henry's right here. Let me put you on speaker."

"Okay, repeat for him what you just told me."

("The prints on the bullets that killed Scanlon and Scofield belong to a guy named Ernest Delbert. He was recently fired by Scofield from her security detail after Scanlon caught him on the floor of Maureen's bedroom playing with her lingerie.")

"So, some kind of pervert obsessed with her," Jo suggested.

"And one with a possible motive for vengeance against the two men responsible for the loss of his job guarding the woman with whom he was fixated," Henry added.

"This is almost too easy," Jo said. "Where are you now, Mike?"

("Where else? On my way to his place of residence to collar him. I texted it to you.")

"Got it," she said after re-reading the text. "We'll meet you there." She ended the call and pocketed her phone. She then stood up and grabbed her purse. "Ya coming?" she asked Henry.

"Of course," he replied. They descended the stairs to the second level and he grabbed his coat off of the coat rack and put it on.

Abe came out of his bedroom and walked into the kitchen when he heard their voices. "What gives? You two leaving me here to eat all that dinner alone?"

"Sorry, Abraham," Henry said as he quickly followed Jo down the stairs to the shop level. "We've got a line on the shooter."

"Well, that's great," he said. "Don't let me stop you."

Once outside the shop and near the car, Henry asked, "Does he live far?"

"Nope," she replied before getting into the car. "Just two blocks up."

So the ride was a short one. When they arrived, Jo parked her car behind Hanson's. She and Henry exited the car and jogged up the stairs into the brownstone. They walked into the livingroom and were met by Hanson as he walked halfway down the stairs from the second level.

"Too late," he told them. "Looks like the guy offed himself."

He led them up the stairs and down the hallway into a bedroom on the left. Once inside the room, he motioned one hand toward Delbert's lifeless body seated in an armchair against the wall near the bathroom . "Gunshot to the front of the head," Hanson noted. "No suicide note but here's the weapon," he said, pointing to the gun in Delbert's right hand.

Henry frowned as he drew closer to Delbert's body. He bent over with his hands on his knees. Placing his gloved fingers under Delbert's chin, he examined the bullet wound closer, turning the dead man's head slightly to the left then the right. He then stood up, surveying the room with his darting eyes, then squinting them at Delbert's body.

"Oh, c'mon, Doc," Hanson pleaded. "Suicide, right? Case closed!"

"Sorry, Detective," Henry replied, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Most suicide victims either shoot themselves squarely on the side of the head either over the top of the ear or on the side of the temple. Some shoot themselves in the mouth."

"What is your point, Henry?" Jo asked.

"I've never seen a suicide victim administer the fatal shot on the forehead just above the eye," he replied. "An odd way to have handled the gun, wouldn't you say?" he asked them. To demonstrate his point, he mimed holding the handgun pointed to his own forehead just over his right eye. "Rather uncomfortable and awkward," he stated.

Hanson's shoulders dropped along with his smile as he scowled at Jo doing her best to keep a smile under control. "You're sayin' the guy was murdered," Hanson said.

"Yes," Henry replied. "And to further that assumption, I'm willing to bet that there's no gunshot residue on his hand even though he's gripping the gun. Plus the nature of his wound is similar to that of our other two victims indicating that the shooter was more than an arm's length away from him." He turned to face the two detectives and said, "Yes. This man was murdered."

"Call it in," Jo said to Hanson, tapping his shoulder with her small notepad.

Hanson pulled out his phone and called for a bus. Later, after Delbert's body was removed from the home and the CSU took over the crime scene, Henry left to ride in the morgue van with the body. Hanson continued to grumble to Jo about their meticulous ME.

"How does he always know so much, see so much?" he asked Jo. "I mean if we still have a perp out there, then we gotta find him. But where did Henry get all of his knowledge? He read an encyclopedia a day? Guy's got too much time on his hands, if you ask me."

Jo stifled her laughter, licking her lips. If only he knew, she thought to herself. If only he knew. Then it suddenly occurred to her that Abe should be provided police protection since, according to their ME's initial examination, the shooter was still on the loose. She hurriedly got into her car and headed back to the shop. On the way, she called Abe's landline and got voicemail. It didn't take long to arrive there, though.

She pulled up to the front of the shop and froze, sucking her breath in. The door was slightly ajar and the shop was dark. The second floor lights were on easing her apprehension a bit. With her weapon drawn and the small flashlight in her other hand on top of her gun hand, she proceeded cautiously through the shop. However, Abe failed to respond when she called out for him. Once upstairs, she swept each of the rooms and found no one. She climbed the stairs to the rooftop terrace and her heart nearly stopped at the sight of Abe lying unconscious on the floor near the table. She looked cautiously around and found no one else. Kneeling beside him, she fought against panicking at the sight of all the blood from a head wound. When she realized that the bullet had only grazed his head and not penetrated, she nearly fainted from relief. Whipping out her phone, to call for a bus, she checked for a pulse and found a fairly strong one. At least she would be able to tell Henry that his son was only injured. His son was alive.

Notes:

Victoria era slang terms found at

/not-up-to-dick-100-wonderful-victorian-slang-words-you-should-be-using-9514/

Again slight references to the Pilot episode of "Forever" TV show; ; and S01/E13 Diamonds Are Forever; S01/E14 Hitler on the Half Shell; S01/E16 Memories of Murder; and S01/E18 Dead Men Tell Long Tales.