To say that John Connolly enjoyed a remarkable success with his first book, Every Dead Thing, is to understate the case: this first thriller featuring Detective "Bird" Parker was a highly unusual entry in the field, written in a raw, arresting style that transfixed all who were drawn to it. But is Dark Hollow, the second appearance of Connolly's fiery and inexorable investigator, equally gripping? Connolly himself has remarked that he wanted to give this new book a very sinister feel, rather than just a gruesome one. In this, he has succeeded triumphantly - and the latest novel builds on the considerable narrative achievements of its predecessor.
This time, Bird (still recovering from murder of his family by The Travelling Man) returns to the scene of happier times, the wintry Maine of his childhood. But other memories are more threatening: another young woman is savagely killed along with a child, and Bird's previous encounter with the victims compels him to track down the murderer. There is an obvious suspect - but Bird, by putting himself into the extreme danger that is so often his lot, comes to believe that the real answer lies thirty years in the past. As the body count increases, it becomes apparent that someone else is hunting for Billy, the dead woman's ex-husband and chief suspect in the slaying. And this dangerous figure appears to know Bird intimately. Before long, the tormented detective is investigating the terrifying origins of a mythical killer: the psychopathic Caleb Kyle.
Along with the kind of riveting storytelling skills we have come to expect from Connolly, the author has built into his narrative a superstructure of striking imagery: predatory nature and the cycle of the seasons feed into the darker corners of the plot and illuminate the grim psychopathology of the characters. Bird remains the most involving of protagonists - and by dovetailing his hero's troubled past into the search narrative, Connolly ensures the reader's total involvement. The author's way with disturbingly detailed prose remains as evocative as ever: "'Nice car', he repeated, and a fat white hand emerged from one of his pockets, the fingers like a thick, pale slugs that had spent too long in dark places. He caressed the roof of the Mustang appreciatively, and it seemed as if the paint would corrode spontaneously beneath his fingers."
