Though Shamus found it difficult to believe, Gerhard von Trakl had evidently made his own escape, a fact that pleased Shamus immensely even though it meant personal grief. The Feds unfortunately assumed the daffy old bastard was still his captive and had poured on the heat – or as much as they could without causing undue media attention. They didn’t seem to want any, in fact, since there hadn’t been a hint in the press or on screen that the country’s foremost nuclear physicist had been kidnapped inside the nation’s largest facility for the production of fissionable materials – an understandable silence, as such information would not inspire the citizens’ confidence or advance any political careers.
‘But,’ Shamus said, bringing his story up to date, ‘somebody wasn’t silent. Somebody had to tell them where to find me, because they did. When they turn up the heat, somebody burns, and then it all starts burning, collapsing as it’s consumed. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your losses – your possessions, your home, the labor and heart you put into it.’
‘It’s not the first time,’ Annalee assured him. ‘That’s how we got to the Four Deuces, even though Daniel might not remember.’ She was driving, so had to prompt him with a quick glance over her shoulder, ‘Not that you should.’
But Daniel, who’d listened intently from the backseat, didn’t want to talk about what he didn’t remember. ‘How many people knew you were staying with us?’
Shamus responded without hesitation, obviously having given it some thought himself. ‘You, your mother, Smiling Jack, and the pilot, a young black guy named Everly Cleveland, Bro for short. Those are the ones I know for certain; there were probably others.’
‘The pilot betrayed you,’ Daniel said.
‘Said with great certainty,’ Shamus noted. ‘Your evidence?’
‘Mom and me wouldn’t do it and neither would Smiling Jack. And besides, the pilot flew over two thousand miles with a bunch of stops, so the plane almost had to be noticed. See, that would be smart – to check the little airstrips.’
‘Yeah,’ Shamus sighed, ‘that’s the most likely case, but who knows? If it was the pilot, though, I hope he turned me cold. Went straight to a pay phone and snitched me off.’
‘Why?’ Daniel said, puzzled.
Shamus, who had turned around to face Daniel, shifted his gaze past Daniel and out the rear window, following the white line back to the horizon. Daniel didn’t think Shamus was going to answer but Shamus suddenly snapped back to attention, his eyes boring into Daniel’s as he said, ‘Because if he didn’t turn me cold, they beat it out of him, and that puts his blood on my hands.’
On a hand and a glove, Daniel thought. He didn’t say it because something in Shamus’s voice and eyes frightened him, something feverish and weak, something that fed on its own corruption, drew nourishment from its self-loathing and suffering, and Daniel wanted to leap away from Shamus’s intimate guilt. He prefaced his question with a vague reassurance. ‘But you’ve got friends, too. Besides Mom and me, I mean. Somebody is helping you. Helping us, really. Who is it?’
Shamus glanced at Annalee, then back to Daniel. ‘You’re sharp, Daniel. What one of my teachers called “a good sense of what’s going on inside what’s going on.”’
Daniel shrugged off the praise. ‘It’s pretty obvious that somebody is flying us around and giving us cars and money. And instructions.’
‘AMO,’ Shamus said.
Daniel didn’t understand. ‘You mean like ammo for guns? Ammunition?’
‘No, though the pun is suggestive. Amo as in the Latin I love.’ Shamus reached backhanded along the front seat and lightly touched Annalee’s neck with his right hand.
Annalee wanted to pull over and hold him in her arms and let him touch her just like that anywhere he wanted, the warmth of his bare fingertips at the base of her neck, the brush of soft leather on thigh, belly, nipples, throat.
She listened distractedly as he continued. ‘AMO is the acronym for Alliance of Magicians and Outlaws – or, as some members claim, Alchemists, Magicians, and Outlaws, which they contend was the original name. Another faction, small but vocal, insists AMO has always stood for Artists, Myth-singers, and Outriders. As you might sense, there is constant and long-standing contention about AMO’s origins and development, a situation encouraged by the fact that the Alliance does not keep a private account of itself – all records must be public. Since AMO forbids nearly all direct reference to its principles and practices, the public accounts – books and music being the most available – are extremely oblique, hidden in images and the arc of metaphor.
‘But whatever the true derivation of its name, AMO is a secret society – though more on the order of an open secret, in fact. Basically, AMO is a historical alliance of the mildly felonious, misfits, anarchists, shamans, earth mystics, gypsies, magicians, mad scientists, dreamers, and other socially marginal souls. I’m told it was originally organized to resist the pernicious influences of monotheism, especially Christianity, which attacked alchemy as pagan and drove it underground. From what I gather (I’m not a scholar on the subject), AMO has survived as an extremely loose international alliance of self-described moral outlaws and wild spirits. And though the alliance is so loose it’s nebulous, the center is tight.’
‘What do you mean?’ Daniel said.
‘In each country or region, there’s a seven-member council called the Star. Council members can serve up to forty years or resign at any point. Star members nominate potential successors, who must be approved by the other council members. I’ve never been sure exactly what the Star’s job is beyond administration and special projects. Each Star member has a small field staff to assist her – and I use her because four of the seven Star members, by tradition, must be women.’
‘That’s wise,’ Annalee nodded, glancing at Shamus long enough to flash a smile.
‘Can more than four be women?’ Daniel said.
‘Yes – but not any fewer. That make sense?’
‘I suppose,’ Daniel said, not so much lacking conviction as withholding judgment.
Without taking her eyes off the road, Annalee said, ‘I have a feeling that we were keeping house for AMO, right? That’s who we’ve been working for?’
‘Smiling Jack is a field assistant for Volta, one of the Star members, so I think that’s a safe assumption. But they dislike the phrase working for. They prefer thinking of it as a natural alignment of mutual interests, and therefore an extension of the alliance.’
‘Well shit,’ Annalee said, ‘why not tell us? Or ask us to join?’
Shamus raised his hands in mock defense. ‘Don’t ask me why they do what they do. The only policy I know about recruitment is that you’re not supposed to approach people till they’re ready, and then to tell them the truth. I would suspect in your case that there’s some legal concern about Daniel, since you might be nailed for conspiracy if membership could be proven, and that’s a harder fall. Also, members are supposed to donate five percent of their net income to the cause, so maybe they didn’t want to lean on a single woman’s purse. Besides, you spent enough time on the street to understand the wisdom of knowing no more than you need to.’
Before Annalee could reply, Daniel leaned forward intently and said, ‘You keep saying they. Aren’t you a member?’
‘I was,’ Shamus said. ‘I quit.’
‘But they’re still helping you.’
Shamus sighed. ‘It’s complicated. I started out as a smuggler. Cigarettes and watches at first, then drugs, then gold. Gold was the first thing I’d ever moved that moved me. The first bar I ever saw, it was like the sun rose in my blood. I was working out of Florida at the time, very young, ambitious, imaginative, with a talent for safely transporting contraband from point A to point B. I was reliable, I was discreet, and I was making lots of money. And unlike most smugglers, I didn’t fling it away on drugs, racing boats, and high-flying women. I had fun, but at a level less extravagant than my income, because no matter how good you are, you can get unlucky.