“I know,” said Jacinto. He took a step forward, and Cain saw that he held a wicked-looking knife in his hands.

“Don’t try to stop me,” Cain growled ominously.

“That was never my intention.”

“Then let me pass.”

“There is one thing that I must do first,” said Jacinto, still approaching him.

27.

There are those who will say he’s a sinner,

There are those who will say he’s a saint;

There are those who will swear he’s as strong as a bear,

But whatever they tell you—he ain’t!

Black Orpheus wasn’t so much prophetic as he was just plain lucky. He wrote that verse for pretty much the same reason that he wrote Silent Annie’s—because he had a feeling that there was a lot more to his subject than met the eye.

He never knew just how right he was.

Virtue MacKenzie was already seated in the tavern when Father William and the Swagman showed up. The preacher greeted her coldly, then sat down at his usual table and asked Moonripple to prepare some breakfast for him, while the Swagman walked over and joined her.

“Good morning, my love,” he said. “I knew we were destined to meet again.”

“It’s a little early in the day for you, isn’t it?” she responded, setting her 360-degree holographic camera on the table and checking her microphone.

“What would life be without new experiences?” he said with a smile. “I’ve always wondered what the world looked like before noon.”

“Which world?” she inquired dryly.

“Any world.”

“Pretty much the same, I’d imagine,” said Virtue.

“Blurrier,” he replied, blinking his eyes. “Where’s your traveling companion?

“He’ll be along,” she assured him.

“Well, in his absence, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk a little business,” said the Swagman.

“I’ve got nothing to discuss with you,” said Virtue, inserting the microphone into its slot in the camera.

“We do have an agreement concerning the disposition of the artwork,” persisted the Swagman.

“That agreement’s only valid if Cain kills Santiago,” replied Virtue. “And in case you hadn’t heard, Cain has joined him.”

“Then put in a good word for me with the Angel.”

She stared at him. “Swagman, I don’t know any good words about you.”

“This is no time to deal in acrimony,” said the Swagman. “Neither you nor the Angel knows how to dispose of the artwork; I do. You need me.”

“I don’t care about the artwork,” she said. “I’m getting what I want.”

“You think so?” asked the Swagman, amused.

“The Angel wants the reward money, I want the story. Our interests don’t overlap.”

“Ah, Virtue,” he said with a sigh, “I wish you were as bright as you think you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you really think he’s going to let you live?” asked the Swagman.

“Why shouldn’t he?”