Surprise Visit

Introduction: This one is set twenty years after Going Under. It's also a response to a challenge on the Schism list which mandated: studying for the bar exam, a thunderstorm, lunch at Jimmy's, Vicodin, and seventh inning stretch at Camden Yard, complete with "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," and any HLoTS character(s). It's also the first story I've written that's entirely in one POV, and that of an original character, Ruth Bayliss.

Summary: "Dad stops for a second and stares down the street. 'You're about to think I'm the one replaced by a pod,' he says absently."

Disclaimers: Bill and Tim aren't mine. Ruth is, though.

Spoilers: Spoilers implied for the movie Hard Core Logo, and some spoilers for Homicide, both series & movie

Classification: Crossover (HLoTS/HCL), slash (no sex scenes, though), challenge.

Rating: R, I suppose, for language mostly.

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Surprise Visit

by shell

copyright 2002

I wait for Bill at Jimmy's, but he's late. I guess that shouldn't surprise me after all these years. It doesn't matter how many times he's been to Baltimore, he always manages to get lost—and he still insists on driving rather than taking a limo or even a taxi. I always thought he just didn't like it here, but I never told Dad that.

Of course, I never go anywhere without my computer, so I pull it out of my briefcase and get to work. I already ordered—I was starving, and even though the selection was more than a little limited for a vegetarian, like my father, I make an exception for crab while in his home town.

I spent so much time and energy focused on civil rights law while in school that I really had to bone up on everything else, especially criminal and contracts. The bar exam was still a couple weeks away, so it was time to quit fucking around. It was times like this when I wondered why the fuck I'd ever gone to law school—I had a great job, and even if my research wasn't having a direct impact, so what? I didn't have to decide that my purpose in life was to make this country safe for all disenfranchised people. Like that was ever going to happen.

To tell the truth, I think the real reason was that I wanted to give something to my father, the man who'd saved me at age eight, then adopted me at age nine. Sure, it meant the world to him when same sex marriage became legal in Canada—he and Bill renewed their vows in Vancouver that year—but it pissed all of our friends and family off that their partnership wasn't officially recognized in the US. So after a BA and MS in sociology, and several years working with like-minded sociologists, anthropologists, and others researching hate crimes, cults, and the evolving views of American culture on gays and lesbians, I decided I wanted to take a more pro-active stance.

I didn't have a clue how I was going to do it, though, until I was talking to my old roommate, Mickey the Neuron, ensconced in her second post-doc at the University of Chicago.

"You want to make a difference in the world—how Obie of you, Nature Girl! Why not do as so many have done and go to law school? Then you can go to work for the ACLU or something. Although I don't know how your dad would feel about that, being a former police and all."

"Shut up, Mick—you know he'd love it, as long as I wasn't going to be a defense lawyer. Jesus, maybe that is a good idea..."

We'd talked for another hour, fulfilling our routine and unquestioned roles to support each other in the almost psychic way we'd developed over the years. I reminded her about her commitment to pure research and her desire not to be owned by the drug companies (thus the second post-doc instead of a lucrative job with GlaxoSmithKline), and she reminded me why I went into sociology in the first place. She asked after my family, I asked after hers. She told me a little about the research she was working on, and why it excited her, and even though I had little to no comprehension of what was involved in regenerating axons, I got excited for her. She told me about the other post-doc, named Sebert, who had grown up only 30 or 40 miles from her hometown, and how they'd bonded over escaping Appalachia. Just like always, the moment I heard her voice, it was as if we'd never been apart.

Those conversations continued during the three years of law school, through her marriage to Sebert (she asked my dad to walk her down the aisle, which totally made his year), the birth of her son, and a couple failed relationships on my part. She'd come out to DC for my graduation, so I'd seen her a couple weeks ago, but I still missed her.

I look up as my food arrives, along with a peal of thunder. I hadn't even noticed the rain, but it's really coming down out there. Maybe that's why Bill's so late. I dig in with gusto—I really miss the mountains, miss my friends back in Arizona, but I sure as shit couldn't get any good crab in Flagstaff.

I'm about halfway done with my food when Bill finally appears, his hair plastered to his skull, dripping onto the floor. That doesn't stop that smile of his from lighting up the room when he sees me, and it doesn't stop me from jumping up to give him a hug and a kiss.

"Ruthie, shit, I'm sorry I'm late. Have you been waiting long? I couldn't fucking remember where Jimmy's was, can you believe that?"

"From you, yes. Just how many brain cells did you kill back in the day, anyway?"

"That's not buddies. I can still find my way around every major city in western Canada, so give me a fucking break."

We're both laughing through this whole exchange, and he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before sitting down. You wouldn't know to look at him that he's in his sixties. Yeah, we all know he dyes his hair, which he's still got a fair amount of, and his face is weathered, but when he grins that patented grin, you'd swear he was twenty years younger.

Dad's aged well, too. He has less hair than Bill, and it's completely grey, but he can still pass for a lot younger than he is. Thanks to the knee replacement he had a few years ago, along with some serious advances in orthopedics, he no longer needs his cane, although he still walks with a limp. I haven't seen him since graduation, either, and I miss him.

"How's Dad?"

"He's great, lovebug, but he misses you. When are you coming home for a visit?"

"I'm not sure—I'm hoping I can come out for the weekend after the bar. It's too bad he couldn't join you this time."

"Yeah, well, you know how he is when duty calls. Gwen's retirement threw the board for a loop, and he's insisting on interviewing replacements personally."

"It's going to be hard to find someone to replace Gwen."

He nods. "Have you heard from Mouse?"

"She called a couple nights ago, to apologize again for missing graduation. As usual, she's totally swamped and loving every fucking minute. They had a reviewer from the LA Times a couple weeks ago—she's going to email me the review, which of course was glowing. And she promised to send me some cookies, although I'm not holding my breath."

"Tell me the truth, Nature Girl. You do know how to make them yourself, don't you? You must be able to cook—I know you don't eat out every fucking meal."

"Yes, I know how to cook, Billy, jesus. But I swear, it doesn't matter how many times I've tried, they just never turn out right. Only Miss Mighty Mouse can make the cookies of love."

"I've always suspected there was a secret ingredient in there somewhere."

"Uncle Chris always said that was the hallmark of a great chef."

"He would know."

"Hey, how's Billie doing? I haven't heard from her in awhile."

His smile grows. "You're going to have to ask her. She's got some news, but she made me promise not to tell."

"Fuck that. She's pregnant, isn't she?"

He laughs. "You didn't hear it from me, understand?"

"That's awesome, Bill! Or should I say, 'Grandpa'?"

"Only my future grandchild can call me that, Ruth Bayliss, so don't even fucking try."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Boisy."

"Shut up, Nature Girl."

The waitress comes by and takes Bill's order and clears my mess. I order dessert and coffee.

"How's the job?"

"It's great. Very challenging, long hours, but I'm finally doing the work I want to do, you know? And with the new appointees on the court, I think we're going to go ahead with the case."

"Declaring the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional—Ruth, you do remember what your dad told you about trying something a little more in the realm of possibility, like breaking the fucking speed of light?"

"It's gonna happen this time."

"I hope it does, Ruthie, I really do. It would mean a lot to Tim, and to me, and a whole shitload of other people."

"Where are you going for your anniversary this year?"

"He won't tell me. Says it's a surprise. He hasn't told you?"

"Nope. Not yet, anyway."

"Speaking of surprises, I've got one for you." He hands me an envelope. Inside are a couple Orioles tickets. "Let's hope this rain lets up before tomorrow afternoon."

"This is great, Bill, but I don't know—"

"You are not spending the whole day tomorrow, which is Sunday, working and studying. I flew all the way out here to see you, and you're spending the afternoon with me, at the ballpark. I have strict orders from your father to entertain you, and you know I always do what he tells me." At the skeptical look I give him, he adds, "At least as far as you and your sister are concerned."

"Yeah, ever since you took Sarah to get that Mighty Mouse tattoo, you mean. You never took me to get a tattoo."

"I never gave Sarah a Strat, either, so shut up about the fucking tattoo already!"

We're both laughing again at my traditional complaint and his traditional answer.

"You must have some business here, too—I know you didn't fly out here just to take me to an Orioles game."

"Yeah, I'm checking a guitarist out for Deeja's new band. Did I mention I'll be producing her album?"

"A few times, yes. Bill, you've been producing for years now—you don't need to tell me every time you've got a new gig."

"Well, it's not every time that I do it for an old friend like Deej. Anyway, I'm checking this kid out this evening, but I've got some time before I have to be there. Care to jam with your old man's man?"

"That'd be great, Bill. But I really do have to get some work done first—can I meet you back at the house in a couple hours? You still have a key, right?"

"Yeah, I have a key. I could just come hang out in the law library—I bet there are some comfy chairs there where I could take a little snooze. That red-eye's a fucker—didn't get much sleep."

I know that many of my co-workers would be thrilled to meet the legendary Bill Boisy, so I smile and agree, as he knew I would. That way he won't have a chance to get lost again.

Sure enough, he's a huge hit, charming the pants off everyone and thoughtfully refraining from telling embarrassing stories of my childhood. He does tell them all that I broke his heart by not following in his footsteps as a musician, but seeing as my father wanted me to go to college and have a real job, he'd gone along with it. I leave him in the conference room, regaling all who listen with tales of Vancouver's punk underground in the 1980s, and manage to get some work done on case law.

Then he follows me home and we jam for over an hour. I'm a little rusty, and Bill's fingers are bothering him, but he still beats anyone else I've ever played with, and I'm not just saying that because he sleeps with my father. I wonder if he realizes Jenifur's sure to be inducted into the Hall of Fame this year. He plays me a couple new songs, and we fuck around with our old favorites, both wishing Sarah were here to sing with us, but generally just having a kick-ass time. Then we eat some pizza and I send him on his way, knowing he'll be back hours after I've gone to sleep. I don't hear him when he comes in.

As I study, do laundry, go about my routine the next morning, Bill sleeps in the guest room, snoring softly off and on. It's just like being at home, and it makes me smile. I set out the Frosted Flakes and brew a fresh pot of coffee around 11, and right on cue he emerges, hair standing up, wearing his old grey sweats, looking sleepy until after a couple of cups of coffee. He gives me a peck on the cheek and then goes outside to smoke, which he only does when he's not with Dad.

He's in and out of the shower quickly, and we get ready and head out to the ballpark. He's got a sly grin now that he's awake, and I wonder if he has some other surprise up his sleeve. I wouldn't put it past him to have arranged for some of Dad's old friends to meet us, maybe Mary Pembleton, or even Meldrick Lewis.

Sure enough, after we pay off the taxi driver, Bill casually suggests that, since it's still an hour before the game starts, why don't we hang out at the front of the park for awhile. He knows I've made him, but his grin just gets bigger, a sparkle in his eyes as he leads me over to a guy selling programs.

"Okay, who'd you rope into meeting us here, Bill?" I finally ask, looking him in the eye. He laughs and points over my shoulder. I start to turn around only to find myself enveloped in long arms as the only member of my family who's taller than I am (Bill's shorter, even though he'd never admit it—you have to get him out of those biker boots to be able to tell) gives me a hug and kisses my temple.

"Hi, Ruthie," says that familiar voice in my ear, and I turn around the rest of the way so I can give my dad a proper Bayliss greeting.

"Interviewing candidates for Gwen's job, huh, Bill? Jesus, Dad, it's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too, sweetie. I've missed you." Dad lets me go with one last squeeze and goes over to Bill for another kiss and hug. "Missed you too, Rock Star. Slept like shit."

"Likewise, freak. Didn't fucking know what to do with all that room. Now come on—there's a hot dog in there with my name on it, and you do know who the Orioles are playing today, don't you?"

"Well, it's got to either be the Blue Jays, the Mariners, or the Diamondbacks, right? Because god knows you couldn't possibly root for the O's."

"Too bad Vancouver never rated their own team, Billyboy," I chime in.

"No need to get nasty, Nature Girl. I will be rooting for the Orioles today, because they're playing the fucking Yankees. So come on already."

We've got great seats, which is no surprise. Bill may insist on driving himself, but he never hesitates to use his influence for perks for his family. Also as usual, he's made sure Dad has an aisle seat so he can stretch his legs out.

The game's close—the Orioles are leading by one run—when it comes time for the seventh inning stretch. Dad and I stand up, sing along with John Denver, and Bill makes derisive comments. We usually make it to one or two games in Camden Yard every year, and Bill always refuses to sing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" and generally insults the whole Orioles organization for keeping "such a fucking god-awful tradition." Dad and I ignore him. I think it's a stupid song, and I would never get caught dead singing it anywhere else, but Dad gets so into it that I could never let him down by not singing with him.

The home team manages to pull out a victory, and we head out onto the street. Dad insists he wants to take a walk, even though Bill and I can tell he's a little sore from going up and down the stairs at the park a bunch of times.

"Take a pill, Tim."

"I'm fine, Bill."

"You're not going to feel fine later if you don't take one now. Come on, take it already. It's not as if you're going to run out."

"Fine. If you insist, I'll take a damned Vioxx, okay?"

"Thank you. Jesus, Tim, it's not like I'm telling you to take one of the many varieties of expired narcotics currently residing in our medicine cabinet." Bill turns to me. "Guy marries me, a drunk and an addict, and he's hung on to every narcotic prescription he's gotten over the years. I had to clean out six bottles of expired vicodin, percocet, percodan—it's a good thing I was never into that kind of rush, and that he keeps me happy and sober."

"You never know when it might come in handy," Dad protests. "Didn't you take one after you threw out your back that time?"

"Vicodin? Fuck, no, Tim! I took one of your Vioxx—they work better than that oxycodone shit anyway."

"You two sure have the old married couple thing down, complete with bickering over the same fucking things all the time."

"He loves it," Bill says. "If I stopped, he'd think I'd been replaced by a fucking pod."

Dad stops for a second and stares down the street. "You're about to think I'm the one replaced by a pod," he says absently.

"Why?"

"Let's just say I've got a strange compulsion. Let's get a taxi, okay? I want to pay a visit to an old haunt."

Bill and I share a puzzled look, but a taxi's easy to flag down, and soon we're headed towards Fells Point. It drops us off by the Waterfront, or what used to be the Waterfront before Meldrick sold it to a real estate developer a few years ago. It's divided up into condos now. I can tell Bill has no more idea why we've stopped here than I do—we were at the closing party, and Dad's shown no interest in the place since then.

Dad's not even looking at the building, though—he's facing across the street, facing the police headquarters.

He's never told me why he quit being a homicide cop, why he never so much as set foot in that building across the street after his old lieutenant died. I think Bill knows—shit, Bill knows everything about Dad, of course he knows—but he's never told me or Sarah. She and I have talked about it lots of times, speculating what could have happened, what the final blow was. All we can figure is, it must have been pretty fucking traumatic, because when he talks about his years as a detective, you can tell that job was everything to him.

And now he's standing on the sidewalk, looking over at the building where he spent seven years of his life, and the look on his face—determination, fear, quiet courage—is one I've only seen there once before, the night he guided me and Sarah out the back gate of Church Canyon, gave us last minute instructions and hugs, watched us for a moment, then turned and walked back inside.

Bill sees it too. "Tim? What's going on?"

"I wonder—I bet they've left it the same. I wonder if that cerulean blue has faded over the years. They wouldn't put any more money into renovation than they had to."

He turns to the two of us and smiles an indescribable smile. Then he starts to walk across the street, gesturing for us to follow him.

"Are you sure about this, Tim?" There's concern, maybe even worry, in Bill's voice. He's always been protective of my father, sometimes even over-protective, but this doesn't seem like one of those times.

He takes Bill's hand and squeezes it. "Yeah, Rock Star, this detective is ready to face at least a couple demons tonight. It's been over twenty years. Shit, we've been together twenty years, and you've never seen the inside of the homicide squad. Aren't you a little curious? Ruth, don't you want to see where I used to work?"

"I'd like that, Dad, if you're okay with it."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay with it, all right? Come on." There's a little bite to his voice, like he's trying to convince himself as much as us.

He hesitates for a minute when we get to the stairs out front—stands there looking up at the lit windows on the second floor. Then he starts up the stairs and opens the door to reveal—more stairs.

Bill groans. "I always thought you had to be exaggerating about climbing the damned stairs every day." Dad doesn't answer him, just starts climbing.

A couple people are coming down the stairs as we head up, and one, wearing a uniform, stops and looks curiously at Tim. "Excuse me," he says, "but aren't you Detective Tim Bayliss?"

Dad looks a little embarrassed as he answers, "Well, I used to be, a long time ago."

"Sir, I have to say it's a real honor to meet you. My mother still tells stories—hell, everyone tells stories about the legendary Bayliss, zen detective, and the amazing Pembleton, all the cases you two solved, by yourselves and together. Lieutenant Howard, before she retired, and Lieutenant Falsone, they terrorize all the new detectives by letting them know how they could never compare to the greats of old."

"Lieutenant Falsone, huh? I always knew that little weasel had more ambition than sense. It's nice to meet you, Officer—"

"Rogers, sir," he says, trying not to laugh. "Henry Rogers. I think you knew my mother, Lieutenant Sally Rogers?"

"She was still Sergeant Sally Rogers last time I saw her—how is she doing?"

"She's doing great, sir—retired just last year. She'll be thrilled to hear I ran into you. She always said you were the kind of detective she wanted to be, that you never lost your ability to care, that you were a true speaker for the dead. Truth is, I think she had a bit of a crush on you."

"Um, yeah, well, make sure you thank her for me, give her my best. Oh, I'm sorry, let me introduce you to Bill Boisy, my husband, and Ruth, my daughter. Ruth just finished law school at Georgetown, and she's staying in my mom's old house for the summer."

"Very nice to meet you, Ms. Bayliss, Mr. Boisy. And congratulations—unless you're going into defense law."

"No, nothing like that. I'm working for a small civil rights firm."

"That's all right, I suppose. And Mr. Boisy, I've been a fan since I was a kid—any chance Jenifur will be doing a reunion tour?"

"Nah, I think senior citizens like me have no business playing rock and roll." The truth is, arthritis prevents him from playing as well as he expects to, and even though no one else could ever tell, he feels he'd be letting his fans down, so he's stopped performing except for an occasional unannounced set, usually on his acoustic. He still writes and produces, but Jenifur played their last gig a couple years ago.

Dad's looking a little anxious, and the kid picks up on it, reaches out to shake his hand.

"Anyway, Detective, I'll let you get going. Truly, it was an honor to meet you."

"It was nice to meet you too, Rogers. Your mom's a great police, and it sure seems like she raised you to be one as well."

"Thank you, sir. I'll tell her you said so. Oh, and Lieutenant Falsone is here tonight—I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you."

"Okay. Thanks, Rogers." Dad's already turned and started up the stairs again, so Bill and I shrug at each other and follow. We all pause with him on the landing before entering the second floor squadroom. No one takes much notice of us until we walk in, and then a rumpled Hispanic woman introduces herself as Detective Martinez and asks if she can help us.

"Uh, yeah. I'm Tim Bayliss, used to be a detective here, and I was in town and brought my family by, thought I'd show them the squadroom, if that's all right. This is my daughter, Ruth, and my husband, Bill Boisy."

"Of course, Detective Bayliss. It's very nice to meet you—you're something of a legend around here. I'll just let the lieutenant know you're here, but feel free to look around."

"Thank you, Detective."

Dad leads us towards the interrogation room, the infamous Box, looking around and listening to the bleating phones. None of us says anything for a few minutes. Bill's the first to break the silence.

"Tim, I thought Pembleton was the one who got all the fucking hero worship around here—you never told me you had the same reputation as he did."

"Believe me, I didn't have this reputation when I left. Then I was the gay zen weirdo from Homo-cide—nobody gave a shit about my clearance rate anymore. Yeah, they appreciated that Frank and I arrested Gee's killer, but no one was sorry to see me go."

"Tim Bayliss, as I live and breathe! What brings you back up here after so many years?" An arm reaches up to slap my father on the shoulder. It's attached to a short, paunchy, greying man who walks with a swagger no doubt born from a Napolean complex. His smile on seeing my dad seems genuine, though.

"Falsone, I hear they put you in charge of these children—when did that happen?"

"Oh, you know, after Howard retired. Jeez, I don't know if there's anyone else left up here that was here in the old days—Mike Giardello, Meldrick, Teri, they're all retired. Well, there's Hall, Gaffney's favorite brown-nose, brown-nosing the commissioner now, but he's hardly worth mentioning. You still in touch with anyone?"

"Yeah, sure, a few people."

"Well, listen, it's good to see you again, really, after all this time."

"Uh, thanks, Paul."

"Listen, Bayliss, I know I was an asshole back in the day. I'm still an asshole, but my head's on a little straighter now, no pun intended. The squad went to hell after you went on leave, and it got worse after you left for good."

"You were an asshole, Falsone, but you were a good detective."

"Not as good as you, Bayliss, and don't think I don't know that. I know some people would argue with me about this, but for my money you were the best detective that squad ever had—better than Lewis, Munch, even Pembleton. I'm sorry you were persona non grata for awhile there, to me and to some of the other detectives."

"Water under the bridge, Paul—don't worry about it."

"After you left, Ballard went back to Seattle, Munch went to New York, and Sheppard decided to play doctor, and we were left with Gharty instead of Gee, and only a couple detectives who could find their asses with a flashlight and a mirror. I know you and I were never close, but I wanted you to know how much I respect you as a murder police."

"Thanks, Paul. And, um, I wasn't really in very good shape the last few times you saw me. I wasn't really on my game after I got shot, especially after everything else that happened that year. So if people want to remember me, I hope they remember me at my best, when I was still partnered with Frank."

"That's bullshit, Tim. Yeah, I know you were having a rough time before you left, but you were still a damned good detective. You partnered with everyone on the squad, and you closed cases." The lieutenant pauses, takes a look at Dad's face, and abruptly changes the subject. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here, glad to see you. Would it be okay if I introduced you to the squad, prove you're not a figment of the lieutenant's imagination?"

Dad doesn't look thrilled at the prospect, but he agrees, reluctantly. Falsone gestures us over by the whiteboard in the corner, and I realize I'm standing by the Board, complete with names in red and black. Half the squadroom is already watching us unobtrusively, curious about the strangers, maybe recognizing Bill or even Dad. The rest look up when Falsone clears his throat and asks for their attention.

"Now I know some of you young pups think Detective Tim Bayliss is a myth, someone Kay Howard and I made up to try to intimidate you into actually doing your jobs and closing cases. Some of the veterans around here know better, but have never met the man, just seen his picture over at the Waterfront before it closed. Well, here he is—Tim Bayliss, formerly a detective in this squad, the best one I've ever worked with, after which he defected to the feds and was responsible for taking down the Eisen organization. Since then he's been running the Adena Watson Memorial Fund, named after a murdered girl here in Baltimore. I can tell he's embarrassed, so I'll shut up without going into his annoying habit of making zen pronouncements at completely inappropriate times. Bayliss, you want to say anything to these useless so-called murder police?"

Dad is more than embarrassed—he's uncomfortable, unhappy, maybe even a little angry, but he's always been good at putting on a mask, and I doubt anyone but Bill and I can tell.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Falsone, for praising me so effusively now that you no longer have to work with me. This is the first time I've been in the squadroom for twenty years, ever since Gee—former Lieutentant Al Giardello—got shot, and I can't say I've missed it. Working murders can be rewarding, but more often than not it's frustrating, depressing, exhausting, and sometimes mind-numbingly boring; sometimes it's terrifying. It is, however, important. When I was here, detectives used to say that we worked for God. What you do here in this squadroom is probably the most important work you'll ever do. Remember that, and remember to take care of yourselves, so that you can keep doing the work. No one else will."

I'm watching the detectives watch my father through this short speech. Most of them look like they're not much older than I am. They listened to their Lieutenant's introduction with skepticism and annoyance, and that skepticism continued as Dad started to talk. They probably expected some sort of pep talk, or boring stories about the old days, but I think they were impressed with what he actually said, with the unvarnished honesty that's his trademark when speaking to the public. I see some of them nodding in agreement at his description of the job, and looking thoughtful as he wraps it up.

While I've been watching the squadroom, Bill's been watching Dad. That's nothing new, of course—my father is still strikingly handsome, and Bill certainly appreciates that, just as he always has. Whenever they've been apart more than a day or so, they appreciate each other even more; they held hands throughout the game, and I know Bill will be going to bed a lot earlier than usual tonight. There's some concern showing on his face, though, and I wonder again what it is that I don't know about the last days Tim Bayliss spent in CID Homicide. As Dad finishes talking, he turns and looks at Bill and smiles. It's a sweet smile, a smile of relief, affection, love. Bill's smile is full of the same emotions.

I've seen these two men, my parents, smile at each other like that countless times, but the love they share still blows me away sometimes. I haven't met anyone that made me feel anything like what they have for each other, and the fact that they were both past forty when they met doesn't lessen the envy I feel whenever I'm despondent about another failed relationship. Of their three daughters, Billie is the only one who's managed a successful marriage, or even a relationship that lasted longer than six months. Neither Sarah nor I are willing to settle for anything less than the kind of bond we've witnessed these past twenty years, and neither one of us has met anyone who measures up to either of our parents.

Don't get me wrong—our family is far from perfect. There are secrets, like why Dad left Homicide. And even though most of our arguments are affectionate rehashings of trivialities, not all of them are, and there's not a single one of us that doesn't have a fucking nasty temper when provoked. There were times during first Sarah's, then Billie's, then my own adolescence when it took little provocation for any two or three of us to get into some pretty intense screaming matches—it wasn't easy for two men, no matter how much they loved us and each other, to raise three girls, especially given the differently fucked-up childhoods we all endured before coming together as a family.

I don't know about Billie—in some ways she remained on the periphery, only a part-time resident of the household—but for me and my adopted sister, despite all the turmoil, the death threats, FBI surveillance, and everything else, despite any knock-down, drag-out screaming matches, there was never any doubt that we had the best parents in the world. We'd seen the alternatives, after all, from Church Canyon to St. George to friends in LA or Flagstaff whose parents divorced, or hit them, or simply didn't give a shit. I had never yelled at anyone until after I became Tim Bayliss' daughter, for the simple reason that it had never been safe to express any emotion. That safety and security, that love and acceptance, made everything else okay, from the suspicious looks at school when they realized who I was to the very real violence directed against our family the first few years we were together.

So when Dad finishes speaking, smiles at Bill, and then smiles at me, I go over to him and give him a hug, and feel no surprise when Bill does the same. We both stand next to Dad, one of us on each side, and he puts his arms around each of us and squeezes. Then he tells Falsone to take care and walks with us out of the squadroom, down the stairs, and out of the building. He doesn't look back, and neither do we. I know without asking that this has healed him in some way, and for that I'm glad.

We stop outside the Waterfront, Dad staring at his reflection in the window.

"You okay?" Bill asks softly.

"Yeah," Dad answers, just as softly.

"No urges to confess to anything?" There's something darker under the joking tone, and Dad turns away from the window and meets Bill's eyes with a slight frown.

"No," he says, quiet but firm. Bill nods, looking relieved.

"Any chance you're going to tell me what the fuck you're talking about?" I say, more harshly than I intended. The vibe I'm getting from them is scaring me a little. They both turn and stare at me—I think they forgot I was there.

Then Bill says, "That's up to your father, Ruth, but I wouldn't count on it."

"I can't talk about it, Ruth, all right?" He's not frowning anymore—he looks vulnerable, more alone than he has in twenty years, and I find myself nodding, then going up and giving him a hug.

"Okay, Dad, jesus. You're making me think I should offer you attorney-client privilege or something." He stiffens for a second, then hugs me back, and I see Bill's expression over his shoulder and know there's more to this story than Sarah and I ever suspected. I pull away, look the two of them in the eye, and say in my best don't fuck with me voice, the one I use with recalcitrant witnesses in depositions, "Okay, that's it. We're going home, we're going to eat some dinner, and you two are going to tell me what the fuck is going on."

"Ruth—" Dad starts, but Bill interrupts him.

"No, Tim, not here. Come on, let's go home."

We talk a little about what we're going to eat, but other than that the cab ride is pretty fucking quiet. Once we get home, I throw together a quick tofu stir fry and a salad. Bill eats it without complaint, which is pretty damned scary coming from him, and the silence continues until we've cleaned up and gone back into the living room. I grab my pad and a pen and put them on the end table next to my chair, facing the two men sitting on the sofa across from me.

"What's that for?" Bill asks, sounding worried.

"I don't know, exactly—call it a professional security blanket."

"You won't need it," Dad says. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit."

"Ruthie, some things are best left the hell alone," Bill tells me in a placating tone.

"I'm your daughter—you can tell me anything. And I'm a lawyer, so privilege applies, if you need it to."

"Ruth, I'm going to say this just once. You're my daughter, and I love you, but that doesn't mean I have to tell you everything that happened in my life before I met you. You're going to have to trust me and let this one go."

"It seems to me that you're the one who's not trusting me, Dad. Bill obviously knows whatever this deep dark secret of yours is, so why can't I?" Even as I say it, I realize how I sound—like a petulant child—but I can't seem to help it. I'm angry, and I'm scared, and as much as I want to know what's going on, there's a part of me that's relieved by the stubborn refusal in my father's eyes. Bill's the one who responds to what I've said, though.

"That's not fair to any of us, Ruth, and you fucking well know it. Tim said it, and now I'm going to say it. Let this go."

"I can't let it go. You guys are scaring me here, so you have to tell me if whatever this is, whatever you did, if it's going to come back and bite us in the ass. Is there someone out there who's waiting for a chance to hurt you, to hurt our family, with this? If you won't talk to me, have you at least talked to someone else, a lawyer or whoever?"

Dad looks me in the eye. "I promise you, Ruth, there's no one out there who can use this to hurt me or our family in any way. I promise you that I've talked to who I needed to talk to, years and years ago. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"I need to hear it from Bill—no offense, Dad, but I'm not sure I trust you on this."

There's a flash of pain in his eyes, but he nods once, to me and to Bill. Bill's not hurting, though—he's pissed, and I can tell he's working hard to keep from yelling at me.

"Ruth, the only way this is going to come back and bite us in the ass is if you don't fucking leave it alone. You have absolutely no fucking reason not to trust us on this, and I for one am fucking sick and tired of talking about it. We're done, understand?"

The last time I heard Bill use that tone of voice was when he caught me helping Sarah sneak wine into the house. I succumb to the inevitable and nod slowly. "All right, all right. I'm not happy about this, but I guess whatever it is can stay between you two. I know you wouldn't do anything that would hurt the family."

There's no mistaking the relief on their faces now, but I'm not done yet. "Dad, I'll respect your decision not to tell me about whatever the fuck you did, but you have to promise me one thing. If something changes—if there's ever some reason to think that this is going to cause a problem for you—you have to promise me that you'll tell me what's going on."

"If he doesn't, I will," Bill says harshly. "But only if we think it's necessary."

"Dad?"

He nods slowly, reluctantly. "I can't think of a situation where it would be necessary, but if one comes up, I'll tell you and your sister what happened."

"I guess that's as good as I'm going to get, huh? I swear, you two are the stubbornest sons of bitches—"

Bill barks out a laugh. "Yeah, and you, Nature Girl, are the perfect picture of gentility and compliance. Get over it already."

"That's not buddies," I reply, aware somehow the spell has broken, and we're back in familiar territory. Dad leans back on the sofa, and I can see him relaxing for the first time since we got out of that taxicab in Fells Point. His and Bill's hands are loosely clasped, and he's running his thumb along Bill's knuckles. He looks exhausted, and I realize for the first time that it's not stubbornness or a desire to keep a secret—he's protecting me somehow. He was scared to tell me, not because he feared some consequence to himself, but because he was afraid of my reaction.

I'm up and over to the sofa in an eyeblink, squeezing next to him by sitting on the arm. "Dad, do you remember what you told me when Sarah and I visited with you and Bill in LA, the last time, before we moved in?"

"I'm sure I told you lots of things, Ruthie—what in particular did you have in mind?" He's trying to smile, not very successfully.

"I was scared of getting mad at you, remember? It was when Sarah came back with that damned tattoo. I was terrified that you and Bill were going to split up, that you were going to send me and Sarah away, that you weren't going to love us anymore."

"Yeah, I remember. I was so sorry I scared you like that, sweetie."

"No, Dad, you don't get it. That was one of the best lessons you ever taught me. You told me that night that it didn't matter what I did, that you would always love me, no matter what."

Bill gets it right away, but Dad can be a little clueless sometimes—he just looks at me, puzzled and tired.

"I love you, Dad. I always will, no matter what happens, no matter what you did or do or say. I get angry at you sometimes—totally fucking pissed off on occasion—but we work through whatever it is, and I still love you."

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, they're full of tears. He pulls me into a hug. "Thank you, Ruth." And suddenly I don't give a shit what he did. That was a horrible, dark time in his life, but he got past it and found his way, first to Bill, then to me and Sarah. In the many years I've known him, my father has, without ever taking the formal vows, lived the life of a bodhisattva, devoting himself to ending the suffering and aiding the enlightenment of all sentient beings. Whatever he did in the past is immaterial.

I hug him a minute longer, then get up. "Okay, you two, I need to get some studying done, and you need to go to bed. Bill, give him a massage tonight, okay? Looks like he could use it. And try to keep it down—it's hard to concentrate when your parents are fucking loudly down the hall."

"Ruthie!" Dad exclaims, scandalized, but Bill just laughs and pulls him up.

"Give it up, Tim—she knows us too well. And she's right. Come on, bed, now." They stop to wish me good night, telling me not to study too late, and then disappear into the bathroom.

A little later, as I'm between briefs on some supposedly important civil case involving railroads, I hear muffled moans, and I smile.

END

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