Morning is a Long Time Coming (8/8) by Bean Rated PG13 due to some violence and language. Keywords: Bayliss. New character(s). Summary: The confrontation and the conclusion. Disclaimer in part 1. Here it is, y'all, the final part of my story. As I've told those of you who have sent me some feedback, this is the first Homicide story I've ever written, and the first story I've sent to a mailing list like this. Point being, if you like it, tell me and I'll write some more, and if you don't, tell me that, too, so I can send all my story ideas to someone with talent.:) Also, if you do send me feedback, please make sure to put something about the story in the subject line, or I'll delete it as junk mail. It's just reflex. ------------ Morning is a Long Time Coming (8/8) Rowan lets herself into Bayliss' apartment with the keys he gave her and thanks the uniform for the ride. With a long sigh, she collapses onto the futon, unable to relax despite knowing that the maniac after her and her family has been arrested. Exhaustion has taken its toll, however, and soon the gentle hand of sleep wraps her in its hold. As Rowan's subconscious replays the horrifying events of the day in her dreams, the door to Tim's apartment - the door left unlocked by Rowan in her hurry to lie down - creeps slowly open, and a tall, dangerous man makes his stealthy way into the darkened room and waits. There is no hurry, he realizes, and it will be far more fun to take care of them both at once. "Rowan! Hey, Rowan, wake up!" Tim cries only moments later, shaking her from sleep. She opens her eyes and then squints against the bright light he has turned on. "Bayliss, what do you want?" she asks testily, angry at being woken up in such a rude way. "John Patterson isn't the one, Rowan. Come on, we have to get out of here." He pulls her up off the futon and she stumbles against him, still groggy. "Tim, what are you talking about? I thought you said John - Tim, watch out!" she cries, catching sight of the huge man, identical to John except for the twisted leer contorting his features, as he appears from the shadows of the hallway behind them. Before Bayliss can react, Jake Patterson raises the butt of his gun and smashes it against the side of the detective's head. With the sickening, squishing crack of steel against skull, he collapses into Rowan, who lowers him carefully and quickly to the floor, unable to allow herself the luxury of panic. Without even checking to see if Bayliss is still alive, she is judging the distance between herself and the man, the man and the light switch. With a movement almost too fast to see, she shoots her leg out to trip Patterson, sending him and his gun flying, though more from surprise than from the actual blow. The momentum carries her to her feet, and one hand brushes against the light switch as she presses her back to the wall. She can hear him scrambling around in the dark for his weapon on the other side of the futon. With a deep breath, she makes a dive for Bayliss. He is still breathing, thank God, so now Rowan can turn her attention solely on the unknown man with John Patterson's face. *Think, Rowan,* she cautions herself. *He's a hell of a lot bigger than you, and you have only the very small advantage of darkness.* With the clear, focused mind of one who knows what she must do, Rowan reaches under Bayliss and pulls his gun from its holster. Jake Patterson has regained his feet by this time and is making his bumbling, cursing way across the small apartment. He is inches from stepping on Rowan and Bayliss when she jumps up from the floor and presses the gun into his chest. "I'm not afraid to kill you," she whispers, her voice low and dangerous. He laughs, amused that *she* would threaten *him.* "You haven't the balls for it, Little Miss Logan." She cocks the pistol and presses harder. "Try me. Drop the weapon and tell me who you are. You're not John, I know that." "How perceptive thou art. No, I am not my sniveling brother, and I thank God every day for that. He would never have gotten up the courage to kill your family." "You're his evil twin? Can we say 'soap opera'? Look, *drop the damn weapon* before I blow your lungs out through your ass!" The perfectly calm, cool expression on his face is unnerving, as he means for it to be, and Rowan finds her hands shaking. *Don't lose it now, babe,* she can almost hear Kevin say, *you got him right where you want him.* "You killed my family? And Kevin? Do you think that's what I wanted?" she demands of him, unleashing all the pain and anger she has been feeling since she walked into her parents' bedroom that morning. "I don't *care* what you wanted, Rowan. That's the difference between me and John: while he snivels and grovels and worships you from afar, I take action. I'm sick of you and your perfection: your perfect family, your perfect friends, your perfect life. You are sickening, Rowan, and I intend to take care of that." His words set her teeth on edge. "If you think my life is perfect then you obviously know very little about me," she whispers, and smacks the gun against his temple much as he did to Bayliss only a few moments before. Her blow, however, isn't nearly strong enough to even phase him and he laughs at her efforts. "You're a child, Rowan, a scared little girl who doesn't know which way is up. I can make things better for you, my dearest one, if you just let me," he says gently, almost lovingly. This new track unsettles her and she takes a step back, dropping her guard for a moment - an almost fatal moment. Jake Patterson raises his gun, prepared to do what he came for in the first place, but the sight of the seemingly enormous barrel of the forty-five is plenty enough to jolt her back to reality. With a cry of anger and hatred and anguish, she swings around, her foot catching his wrist and numbing his entire hand. The gun flies through the air, landing with a muted clunk on the other side of the room. Rowan moves close to him and sends her knee up into his groin, doubling him over in pain. Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, she tackles him to the ground and rolls over to nab Tim's handcuffs from his belt. Jake Patterson is rolling about on the floor, hands clamped against his crotch and groaning in pain. Rowan wants to laugh at him as he laughed at her moments before, but she can't: she will not allow herself to be anything like him. Instead, she yanks hard on one arm, pulling it behind his back, and snaps the cuffs around his wrist, jamming Bayliss' gun into his spine with the other hand. "Give me your other arm. I don't think you're in any position to fight." With a groan of acquiescence, he rolls over onto his stomach and she clicks the metal bracelets home. "If you'd really done your homework, Mr. Patterson, you would know about my kick boxing habit. I find that it's a much more constructive means of releasing excess tension than murder." -------- "So it was the evil twin, huh?" John Munch asks Frank Pembleton a few hours later. Frank looks up from the report he's typing and frowns. "Yeah, John, it was the evil twin. Something wrong with that?" "No, nothing... I was just looking for something a little more sinister. Like... oh, like that time me and Big Man worked that case where someone stabbed a guy in a Santa suit to get the money from the Salvation Army pot, and it turned out the dead Santa had mugged the *original* Santa, also to get the Salvation Army money. Now *that* was mean. It was Christmas Eve and everything... I miss Stan," he says sadly. "And killing a girl's entire family and her best friend isn't?" Pembleton says, ignoring Munch's commiserating over his former partner, Stanley Bolander, the Big Man. Munch shrugs. "Yeah, that's pretty bad... but Jack Logan wasn't exactly up for the Citizen of the Year Award from what I've heard. So where's Timmy-boy?" "At the hospital," Frank replies, returning to his report. "Jake Patterson knocked him in the head with his gun." "Is that before or after Rowan Logan kneed him in the balls?" "Before, Munch. Don't you have something better to do?" he asks impatiently. "Nope, Frankie, nothin. So how did he do it?" Pembleton shrugs and keeps typing. "He says Jeremy Logan let him in, thinking he was John, their cleaning guy. The Logans were asleep and he stabbed them. At Alan Bryant's he used a key Jeremy had given John... and then at Kevin's, the door was unlocked." "Why would Jeremy Logan give John Patterson a key to his best friend's house?" "Something about... he thought John might need a place to stay sometime or something. Apparently Jeremy and Rowan knew John Patterson's home situation wasn't all that great - not that they knew about Jake, just that it wasn't all cookies and milk over there - and so they felt sorry for him," Pembleton tells him. "And what about our mysterious Elisabeth Patterson?" Munch demands next. With a resigned sigh, Frank says, "Bayliss was right about that one: there was no Elisabeth Patterson at all. It was just a name Jake made up when he got that Mustang." Munch sighs and shakes his head. "Look at that board, Frankie! Four new names in black for Bayliss... and me? I'm all red. All red, Frank! Life sucks." "It could be worse, Munch: you could be going through what Rowan Logan is right now." This quiets the cynical detective, but only for a moment. "Where is she anyway?" Pembleton swivels in his chair, turning a deadly glare on the other man. "I don't know, Munch! Why don't you go down to Missing Persons, file a report and leave me the hell alone?!" "Alright, Frankie, alright. Calm down. I don't wanna have to be the one to scrape you off the floor if your head explodes again." With this final, joking barb, Munch leaves the squad room, heading for home. "Have a good one, Frank!" he calls from the hallway. "Yeah, John, you too," is the quiet, laughing reply. --------- It is just before eight on the morning after her parents' murders, and Rowan Logan is standing on Federal Hill watching the newly reborn sun cast its young light on the city of Baltimore. Her eyes rove along the buildings - the Aquarium, the Trade Center, the shops, the Science Center - nothing is open yet, but the sidewalk is filled with early morning joggers and commuters. As she watches the hustle and bustle from the distance of the quiet fort, a small smile flirts with the corners of her mouth. It is, quite possibly, the first time in the eight years since the Logan family first moved to Baltimore that this city has felt like home to her. It is vibrant, bright and alive... and despite her pain, despite the loss she knows she must come to terms with, Rowan has never felt more at peace with the world around her. It's as though balance has been restored, and she doesn't quite understand how that can be. Her family is dead. That can't be a good thing. So why does she feel so vital and fresh and new? "Ya know," a voice says from behind her, causing her smile to turn into a wide grin, "a little bird once told me that singing is good for the soul, but I disagreed with her." "Did you?" she questions softly, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Yep. See, I told her that cartoons are better than singing... but now I think we're both wrong." "Do you?" He moves closer, resting his hands on her shoulders from behind. "Uh-huh. I am now of the opinion that watching a good sunrise is better for the soul than anything." A single tear escapes to roll down her cheek, and she wipes it away impatiently. "So... are you saying I'm not a horrible person for being in such a good mood?" she asks, turning to face him. "We caught the bad guy, Rowan; he's going to be punished; things are as they're supposed to be. This isn't how my life usually works, but I feel it's best not to question it. In other words, no, you aren't a horrible person. This will hit you before too much longer, and when it does I'll be there to help you through it. I promise," he says, his tone earnest, gentle and loving. Her dark brown eyes come up to meet his green ones and she smiles again, embracing him in a crushing hug. "Thank you, Tim," she murmurs. "We're alright, Rowan," Bayliss replies, echoing her earlier words as he holds her tight against him. "We're alright." *Yes,* that little voice in her mind whispers, *this feels like home.* But out loud Rowan says nothing, lost as she is in the warmth of his arms and the bright, hopeful sunlight of a new morning. End part 8/8 ---------------- Whew, finally done! If, like I said before, I get positive feedback on this one, I'll write some more. The next one might feature Lewis or Kellerman as more central characters, especially since I think Mikey got a raw deal. But I won't bore you with my opinions. :) Someone mentioned to me that she thought I had written Frank a little too distant and detached. For those of you who might agree with that, let me just make a little comment: to me, Frank Pembleton is an incredibly intimidating character to write. This is my first effort, and I felt I should stick with characters I feel more confident about being able to write accurately and perhaps even well. Maybe a few stories down the road I'll make Frank a more central character, but right now it's just too daunting! Oh, and some "thank yous" to Joe (for reading every version of this I sent him, even though he had to be bored after the 500th time), Alboy (for the same thing, though I thank him rather grudgingly), Raquel for posting this, the writers at Homicide for making such a great show that's perfect for fanfic, and to all of you who have encouraged me through your letters! Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this and please, please, please write me!!!!