The Wrath of Angels by John Connolly

in the cities did anything for nothing. He asked Marielle if she was ready to go, and she said that she’d follow him in a few minutes, just as soon as he brought the truck around. He looked a little reluctant to leave, as though fearful that there might be further disclosures.
    ‘Go on now, Ernie,’ said Marielle. ‘I just need a moment or two with Mr Parker here about a private matter. I’m not going to speak out of turn.’
    He nodded, shook my hand, and headed out into the evening.
    ‘A private matter?’ I said.
    ‘Private enough. This Brightwell: who was he really? None of that bullshit about him being unusual or nothing. I want to know the truth.’
    ‘You could say that he was a member of a cult. They called themselves “Believers”. That trident symbol on his wrist was an identifying mark.’
    ‘For whom?’
    ‘For others like himself.’
    ‘And what did they believe in?’
    ‘They believed in the existence of fallen angels. Some of them even believed that they were angels themselves. It’s not an uncommon delusion, although they took it to a rarefied level.’
    ‘Did Brightwell believe he was a fallen angel?’
    ‘He did.’
    She considered what I had just said.
    ‘What did my mother mean when she spoke of a “hidden angel”?’
    There were two possible meanings. The first was a legend arising out of the great banishment of the rebel angels, and their fall from heaven to earth: that one repented and, even though he believed he had no hope of forgiveness for his transgressions, he continued to make recompense, turning his back on his angry, despairing brethren, eventually concealing himself amid the great sprawling mass of humanity.
    But I shared with Marielle the second possibility. ‘Brightwell believed that he was the servant of twin angels, two halves of the same being. One had been found by its enemies a long time before and imprisoned in silver to prevent it from roaming, but Brightwell and the other angel had continued to search for it. They were consumed by their need to free it.’
    ‘Jesus. And did he find what he was looking for?’
    ‘He died finding it but, yes, he thought that he did, at the end.’
    ‘That woman, Darina Flores, could she have shared the same beliefs?’
    ‘If, as it seems, she was with Brightwell when he came to Falls End, then it’s possible.’
    ‘But she didn’t have a mark like that, I asked my father.’
    ‘It might have been hidden. I’ve never heard of Darina Flores until tonight.’
    She sat back and stared at me.
    ‘Why was Brightwell so interested in that plane?’
    ‘Are you asking me to find out?’
    She considered the question and then some of the tension released itself from her.
    ‘No. I think you’re right, and Ernie is too. We should just stay quiet, and leave the plane where it is.’
    ‘In answer to your question, Brightwell wasn’t interested in money, or not as an end in itself. If he was curious about that plane, it was because of something else. If your father was right about a passenger being on that plane, cuffed to a seat, then it’s possible this individual was the object of Brightwell’s curiosity; that, or the papers your father saw. Those names had meaning. They’re a record of some kind. So the cash was only a means to an end for Brightwell. He confronted your father at your mother’s rest home because he and, presumably, the Flores woman were looking out for unusual spending patterns. The cost of your mother’s care qualified.’
    ‘Do you think Brightwell accepted my father’s lie about the source of the funds?’
    ‘Even if he didn’t, he never had the chance to pursue the matter. He died in the same year that he confronted your father.’
    Again, she gave me the stare. She wasn’t a fool. Ernie Scollay might principally have been worried about the police, or someone coming after him for money that he didn’t have, but Marielle Vetters had deeper concerns.
    ‘You called them “Believers”, plural. Even