In the early morning hours, the thud of the newspaper began to sound against the doorways and thresholds of St. Louis. Barbara shuffled solemnly along behind the delivery boy, though she tried to remain inconspicuous in the shadows. She had not slept, concern and elation battering around inside her mind, each trying to establish dominance over the other. Of course, neither could fully gain ground inside of her.

She still believed that her ploy would work, that enough people would turn against the McReynoldses in light of the new information so that the long-established political thugs would fall fast and hard. Unfortunately, she still felt uncertain of the effect on her dear new friend. If she could only contact someone to determine if Marissa had been found, then Barbara could proceed without a care. More than a day had passed since she had seen Marissa, and that from a distance, and Barbara couldn't help but begin to worry in earnest, despite her resolve.

Though the sun had not yet begun to rise, Barbara already had a list of people and places that she needed to avoid for the day. She didn't particularly want to wander the streets, but all of her regular haunts would prove dangerous for the rest of the day. Once the hour proved decently considerate, Barbara would return to Anna Cosgrove's home. Only Anna had any reason to feel benevolently toward Barbara; Barbara had given the woman the story of a lifetime. Hopefully, Anna would want to protect her source.

As the sky lightened, Barbara's mind began to close down into the closest approximation she had ever felt to fear or regret. She would not, however, apologize for upsetting the establishment, and no one could convince her that she had erred in that, at least. Glancing up into the stiffening breeze, she turned her face back to Anna's.

**********

"Have you seen this?"

Jerome had almost sprinted the distance between Marcel's modest establishment and the finery of Marshall Crenshaw's estate, a difficult feat for a man in his fifties. Jerome had felt no confidence that the fellow politician would look kindly on an intrusion so early in the morning, but Crenshaw had proven as hospitable as ever and welcomed him in with a firm handshake.

"Mr. Weathers, you appear shaken. Can Ross bring you some coffee?"

For a moment, Jerome just stared, stunned, into the square face of his companion, but then he shook himself from his stupor. "Actually, I would love some, and do you mind if I sit down?"

Despite his usual fortitude, Jerome had begun to feel a bit weak. At his age, an early morning jog across town did not come without some costs.

"Of course!" Marshall agreed readily. "I only hope everything is okay."

"Then I can tell you the answer is no," Jerome sighed aloud. "I guess you haven't seen this."

He pointed to the headline, as if Marshall Crenshaw could miss it if he had eyes in his head. Angus Moran bankrolls the campaign of Regis McReynolds, witness claims.

For his part, Marshall Crenshaw received the information with a measure of composure. A small cough signified some physical reaction, but when Jerome looked up to ensure that his companion hadn't choked on the steaming cup of coffee before him, the man looked fine, if a little red-faced.

"Well," Marshall began calmly, "this is an interesting development so close to the election."

"It's a death warrant, is what it is," Jerome stood back up and began to pace. "If not for Marissa, then for me. And what about anyone else the Moran brothers might think involved? What's to keep them from targeting someone at random just to send a message to the community?"

Marshall could only sit in silence for several seconds before venturing, "Do you think one of the kids did this?"

For a moment, Jerome hesitated to answer, but he could think of no reason to withhold his opinion. "I do," he admitted. "Though I spoke to Marcel this morning, and don't think Marissa was involved. Number one, she is going to suffer the most from this revelation since the Morans will no doubt blame her. Plus, Marcel said that she had left with Tony late last night. Tony, at least, would not allow anyone in his company to do such a thing."

"Not to mention the fact," agreed Marshall, "that Marissa has proven herself of better sense than to do this. Unlike my daughter." Marshall, dropped his eyes to his desk and began to trace the headline with his finger.

"Since it was your daughter," Jerome wondered, "Will you suffer any ramifications?"

Marshall laughed. "I wish I could say that I hadn't thought of that question, what with your and Marissa's lives at stake, but I have. And the answer depends on how the situation pans out. First of all, someone would have to link Barbara's name to the article, and outside of the kids themselves and the professor, you, and myself, no one would suspect her. Then, if word got out of her involvement, I could either suffer or benefit from the news. If the McReynoldses and Morans suffer a material weakening as a result of her disclosure? She'll be a hero, and I'll rise as a result. If people die..." Marshall didn't want to finish, and Jerome didn't blame him.

"Thoughtless kids," Jerome chastised the air. Marshall didn't need the reprimand, but Jerome wanted to box someone's ears for the stupidity of publishing such an article. It made Marissa's little attempt at journalism seem completely benign.

"We need to call the professor," Marshall insisted. "If, by some chance, Barbara did not do this, Mario Garner would seem the most likely suspect."

"He's not likely to be in office at this hour, and he doesn't have a phone in his home."

Marshall rested his face in his hands. After a moment, he looked back up at Jerome. "I don't often run into a situation where I feel completely helpless to contribute, but I think this might be one of those times."

"And I have a choice to make. Tomorrow is the election. I have one more day to campaign, and I have to decide: is it worth risking my life for a campaign, or do I hide out and hope I've done enough?"

"You also might advise your friend Marcel to close shop for the day. I know that a day's worth of income is not a small sacrifice, but he might have to choose between the money and a bloodbath."

Neither man spoke, the last words hanging in the air like a noose between them. Either Barbara Crenshaw or Mario Garner had taken a huge gamble with other people's lives, and both men in the room sensed that the next thirty-six hours would unfold either a bounty or a catastrophe for a lot of people.

**********

Mario stood aghast as he recognized the grainy photo that graced the front page of the Post. To see his own handwriting with such incriminating evidence scrawled so casually beneath the type made his stomach lurch. For a moment, the image made no sense, but his reason returned quickly, and he knew with certainty the photo's source: Barbara. Whether she had manipulated him from the beginning so she could take the statement to the paper or had come up with the idea after he had left, Mario almost couldn't fathom that Barbara had treated him in such a fashion.

Fairly quickly, though, his conscience upbraided him. How could he complain at such treatment; he had let Barbara talk him into treating Marissa the same way. Suddenly, Marissa's predicament seemed much more significant to him, and he wondered if he would ever get the chance to apologize. He would, of course, confront Barbara about her actions, but even with Barbara, Mario felt compelled to some forbearance. Barbara needed a reminder of the risk she had taken, and that she couldn't choose that risk for other people, but if Mario could justify himself for allowing the lists in their little paper, he knew that Barbara had done the same in this instance. They both needed some serious self-assessment.

Fortunately, Barbara had used her common sense enough to keep Mario's name from appearing on the photo, but the implications of the headline would no doubt affect him – they would affect everyone in the neighborhood, maybe the entire city.

"Angus Moran bankrolls the campaign of Regis McReynolds, witness claims."

Mario claimed, apparently, since his statement had shown up as the evidence.

Now what could Mario do? Part of him wanted to return to his father's office and hide out, wait for the water to breech the dam. Another part of him wanted to head to Barbara's house, not to confront her, but to seek wisdom from her father. Certainly, Mario had begun to question his own wisdom. Somewhere in his mind he thought that, paradoxically, the questioning brought him a step closer to true understanding.

Of course, he realized, he would have to tell Barbara he knew, and he didn't relish that role, but every circumstance in his current misadventure convinced him that he couldn't go the coward's way and still live with himself. He had too often fallen to weakness - otherwise named Barbara – and the resulting fiasco would require bravery. Mr. Crenshaw would find out somehow, if he didn't already know, and Mario would not miss out on seeking the man's advice just to avoid the disclosure of his daughter's guilt.

Once at the Crenshaws' Mario would call his own father and explain the situation, especially Mario's complicity. If the source of the evidence came to light, Paul Garner would no doubt experience some publicity, though the tenor of that publicity would depend upon how the public reacted to the information. Still, Mario knew his pop deserved a warning. He almost dreaded upsetting his own father as much as facing Barbara's.

**********

The air in the room hung thick with cigar smoke and tension, but the cloud of fury that clung to the stocky form as it stalked back and forth across the room seemed denser and almost impenetrable. Every other man in the room watched the figure with a mix of sympathy and fear as they awaited the words that that would send them into motion.

Up until that moment, Sam Lincoln had never found anything to really hate about his job.

Working for Carson McReynolds came with a ridiculous number of perks, and Sam loved perks. Plus, people respected Sam for holding such a position of importance at such a young age. Only twenty-two, and Sam had proven his resourcefulness enough to gain, not only the attention of a respected political campaign manager, but enough respect from him to be appointed into a place of high influence. Unfortunately, sitting through any meeting with the Moran crew felt like a demotion. Maybe even a degradation.

Sam came from a respected family, and though he understood the necessity of pragmatism, he had his limits. Angus Moran constituted one of those limits.

In Sam's limited experience with the Morans, he had never had to look at the seedier side of the gangster's business, and Sam didn't particularly care to do so under the present circumstances. Still, the times had grown desperate, and so had Carson McReynolds. Sam felt with dreaded certainty that Mr. McReynolds had grown more tolerant of Moran's tactics. Before the Times story, Sam had never seen McReynolds lose his cool, but when he saw the headlines, along with the photo of the handwritten statement, Carson McReynolds had donned the countenance of a demon. If the politician had held a gun, the campaign accountant would have worn a bullet hole through his mathematical brain. Who else could have provided that information, even if the guy did protest his innocence?

"I should send you guys after McReynolds after this kind of stupidity," Angus Moran suddenly barreled into Sam's thoughts. "If he had listened to me, this could not have happened. We would have one dead girl and a very profitable relationship still intact between my organization and his campaign. Now, if I'm going to keep this enterprise going, I'm looking at offing at least two people if not more. It will bring more attention than I intended, not to mention that this will bleed into other areas of business. Lincoln," the Napoleonic figure turned toward Sam, "I hope your boss has come to his senses. If he doesn't see things my way now, I'm afraid I won't be able to continue our arrangement."

"He has come to his senses," Sam bit back the acid as he spoke the words. "That's why I'm here. I've been instructed to let you know that Mr. McReynolds will support you in whatever action you deem necessary."

Moran sneered at Sam with a demented superiority. "I'm not sure that's good enough anymore," he fired through the smoke. "I'm not convinced that our relationship will prove as lucrative for me in the future as it has in the past."

Sam swallowed his pride, and with it a desire to smack the man across the room, an impulse that would no doubt prove fatal in present company. "Mr. McReynolds also authorized me to offer you recompense for any cleanup you might have to undertake as a result of recent unfortunate events."

"Heh. Cleanup. Even when he agrees to murder, he doesn't want to get his hands dirty. Typical."

The word reverberated in Sam's mind: murder. The cute, stupid girl in the park; her life snuffed out because of someone else's ill-advised attempt to change society. Maybe someone at the Times, depending on how public Moran intended to be with his retribution.

"I suppose McReynolds will want us to take out Jerome Weathers," Moran expanded on the growing list in Sam's mind. "Otherwise, Regis will lose the election tomorrow, and both of our organizations will lose access to the structure that we have set up over the last few years."

Though he had expected something unpleasant, Sam tried not to balk at the revelation from Moran. Of course, both Moran and McReynolds would expect drastic measures, and Sam had, in theory, expected them, too. The reality, though, that began to materialize before Sam's eyes did not match up with any scenario he had considered. Of course, he had realized that reality might require a physical remuneration for fiscal damages, but not quite so drastic.

Rather than speak the words he couldn't swallow, Sam avoided them altogether, opting for the role of subordinate. "I'm sure Mr. McReynolds will want to work out the details himself." Sam rose as he spoke. "I'm heading to see him right now; I'm sure he'll have given me a list of requests by the time I return."

"Tell him not to bother with the girl," Moran nodded, and Sam's heart rose for a moment only to come crashing down an instant later. "I had her scoped out a week ago; she'll be an easy mark. I just need some advice on his plans for Jerome Weathers."

Sam tried to hide his huff of irritation, and stalked out the door with a terse, "Got it." Sam had noticed one of Moran's men in the plaza a few times the week before but had never imagine the reason for his presence. Once Sam left Moran's den, he had a choice to make, and he knew he wouldn't want to live with himself no matter what he decided.