The Wrath of Angels

Deep in the Maine woods, a wreck lies hidden — a plane with no record of ever going down, carrying no bodies, and no history anyone will acknowledge. What it does carry is a list of names: people who have made deals with something far older and darker than any human criminal. When Charlie Parker is drawn into the race to find that list, the stakes aren't just his survival — they're the survival of something harder to define, something that sits at the border between faith and dread.

What distinguishes Connolly's writing in this eleventh Parker novel is his rare willingness to let genuine darkness breathe. He doesn't explain away the supernatural or tidy it into metaphor — he treats it with the same cold seriousness as the human evil woven alongside it. The prose has a deliberate, almost mythic weight, and the Maine landscape functions less as setting than as mood. Connolly builds dread through accumulation rather than shock, and the result is a thriller that lingers well after the final page.