CHAPTER FORTY

“They brought Neil Armstrong, the Apollo astronaut, here, and he said it was the only place on Earth that looked like the surface of the moon.”

Malone stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the rocky landscape while Grant searched the four horizons. It was a raw, blustery day, clouds and blue sky occasionally trading places, and there had been a sprinkle of rain on the ride up. They had checked out of their hotel in Killarney, their bags thrown in the back of the Toyota.

Below and to their right lay a verdant green valley, as out of place in this alien landscape as a golf course on the planet Mars. All else was limestone, the rocks so densely packed together they looked in places like the bottom of a quarry. And yet tiny wild flowers, yellow and purple, had found purchase here and there in cracks, in the narrow spaces between rocks.

Grant made a slow surveying circle, and Malone laughed, then coughed.

“No sign of your boogeyman, Bill?” he asked, laughing again. “We’ve been here a bloody hour and the rocks haven’t changed, far as I can tell.”

He coughed again. “I’ve got to sit down, boyo.”

He ambled off to the car, and Grant looked after him with concern. Malone looked no better today than he had the night before—his ruddy complexion had washed to paleness, and twice they had to pull over for him to catch his breath. He claimed it was nothing, that he was “just tired and old,” but Grant wasn’t so sure.

“Maybe we should head out to Galway soon,” he said, reluctantly, and Malone gave a wave as he climbed into the car and sat down, putting his head back on the rest and closing his eyes.

“Anytime, boyo,” Malone said.

Grant shaded his eyes against the sudden appearance of the sun, and looked to the north, the west—

There was a figure to the west, darkly outlined against the gray-white rocks. A black cape, swirling independent of the breeze.

“Tom,” Grant said, but the figure in the car looked asleep.

Grant began to climb over rocks toward the distant specter, who was unmoving, staring out across the Burren, seemingly unheedful of Grant.

The day darkened, gray clouds rising from the west behind Samhain and climbing the sky. The sun retreated and then was gone, and a chill rain began to fall.

“Samhain,” Grant called, as he got nearer, but the figure refused to acknowledge him.

Grant drew close, and now Samhain turned slowly to face him.

“We meet again,” he said, the slash of mouth forming something like a smile. But the hollow eyes were empty, and there was, as Meg Conner had said, a great aura of melancholy about him.

“Where is she?” Grant said.

Slowly, the specter shrugged. “Not here. Not anymore. She went on without me.”

“Why?”

Samhain paused, then looked to the west once more. “Because I failed her. Because I won’t help her.”

There was a long pause. “Because, Detective, I discovered that there is another hand in all this.”

Again he looked to the west.

“She has to be stopped, Samhain,” Grant said.

“I agree. There are . . . things already in the works.”

“What things?”

“The future,” Samhain said, again turning his blank oval face to Grant, “remains to be seen.” Without pause he said, “For millennia, I thought the Dark One was my master. I always knew who the Dark One was. But I never knew who I was.

“Do you know, this is where I started on this planet. It was a long time again. It was barren then and it’s still barren. I used to treasure the barrenness. But now I don’t. Something has happened to me and I don’t know what. There were other places, before this planet, and I don’t have a clear memory of them. Only hints that have come back to me. Don’t you find that sad, Detective? I have no memory of my own . . . beginnings.

“In a way I thought myself a god—but what am I god of? Death? It happens every day, every hour, every second. It’s happening as we speak, all around us. I could raise one of these sterile-looking stones and we would find some vile insect eating some other vile insect. Within twenty miles of where we stand, someone is dying.

“I thought I hated life, Detective, but I don’t. This is the odd and dangerous truth, and something I never fully realized.

“And I served a false god, it seems.”

“If we don’t stop her, she’ll destroy everything.”

Samhain sighed. “Oh, yes, she certainly will. It’s what the Dark One has always longed for—the absolute negation of life. And, if there is no more life, there will be no more death. I knew that, of course, but I’m afraid the finality of it escaped me.”

Samhain turned slowly to face Grant. “There are a few things I want to get . . . straight, Detective.” He smiled grimly. “Off my chest, if I possessed one. You see, I’ve never actually . . . killed anyone. I’m powerless to do so. You must believe me. It’s one of my tricks. I can cloud a man’s mind into thinking or doing something, but only if he is susceptible, and only if he is willing. Bud Ganley, for instance. He unhooked the chain holding that car engine himself. All I did was . . . suggest.”

“What about Marianne Carlin?” Grant snapped.

Samhain’s stone face regarded him silently for a moment.

“It was the Dark One who caused her death. Though I do now regret it. I suppose you might call me an . . . accessory, if you like. A tool. I’ve never been able to influence you. And I must tell you that I’ve grown quite fond of you over the years. I have come to regard many of you as interesting creatures, deserving, even, of an amount of respect. All the bugaboos I’ve tossed at you were in your own mind. I have no power over anything. I didn’t kill your wife, you know—I only let you believe I did. She was not a bad woman, but she was tired of life. I merely . . . abetted her, if you will. And sometimes I was a conduit for the Dark One himself—which was, I suppose, my greatest crime.”

“You’ll help me, then.”

It began to rain harder, a mist rising over the rocks which had turned chalky white with the wetness. Samhain turned away. “You? You can do little, Detective. And I don’t know if I can even help myself.”

“Where did she go?”

“To Orangefield. To Halloween. Where else? Though neither of us will find her until she wants to be seen. Midnight on Halloween, four days from now.” He sighed again, a sound beyond sadness. “Your friend, the other policeman, please believe that it was not me. It was merely his time.”

“What do you mean?” Grant said in alarm.

Samhain began to slowly drift away over the rocks, his black cape swirling as he receded. “You must talk to Reggie Bright, Detective. She is our only hope in this matter. And you must hope that I am truly strong this Halloween.”

And then the wraith was gone, melting into the rain and mist, and Grant was running back to the car.