Inspector Sejer is hard at work again, investigating the brutal murder of a woman who lived alone in the middle of the woods. The chief suspect is another loner, a schizophrenic recently escaped from a mental institution. The only witness is a 12-year-old boy, overweight, obsessed with archery, and a resident at a home for delinquents.
In Fossum's impressive psychological police procedural, her second to be published in the U.S. to feature Insp. Konrad Sejer (after 2004's Don't Look Back), a troubled youngster claims to have seen escaped mental patient Errki Johrma, a schizophrenic rumored to have left a string of corpses in his wake, in the vicinity of a brutal murder. Sejer himself becomes a crucial witness to another crime-a daylight bank robbery that turns into a hostage situation. Blaming himself for not acting on his suspicions of the man who held up the bank, Sejer races to prevent further bloodshed. The gripping plot takes another sharp turn when the possible killer-Johrma-is identified as the robber's captive. Fossum succeeds in evoking sympathy for all her characters while maintaining the conventions of the fair-play whodunit. Her detective's shy, slow courtship of the psychiatrist responsible for Johrma's care is patiently and convincingly integrated into the plot. Fossum's harrowing journey inside Johrma's warped mind elevates this above the pack and bodes well for future efforts. (July 6) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
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Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
July 02, 2006
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Excerpt from He Who Fears the Wolf by Karin Fossum
A dazzling ray of light slanted in through the trees. The shock brought him up short. He wasn't ready. He got out of bed, made his way slowly through the dark house, still half-asleep, and came out onto the front steps. And there he encountered the sun. It struck his eyes like an awl. He raised his hands to his eyes, but the light kept coming, penetrating cartilage and bone, all the way into the dark of his skull. Everything turned blindingly white inside. His thoughts fled in all directions, shattered into atoms. He wanted to scream, but he never screamed because to do so was beneath his dignity. Instead he clenched his teeth and stood as still as he could on the steps. Something was happening. The skin on his head began to tighten; a tingling sensation that was getting stronger. Trembling, he stood with his hands on his face. He felt his eyes being pulled apart as his nostrils flared, growing as big as keyholes. He whimpered faintly and tried to resist, but he couldn't stop the violent force. Bit by bit his features were erased. All that remained was a naked skull covered with translucent, white skin. He struggled frantically, moaning as he tried to feel his face, to be sure it was still there. His nose had turned soft and disgusting. He took his hand away-he had ruined what little was left, could feel it sliding off, losing its shape like a rotten plum. And then it released him. Anxiously he took a breath, and then he felt his face slip back into place. He blinked several times, and opened and shut his mouth. But as he was about to move forward he felt a deep pain in his chest, the sharp claws of an invisible monster. He doubled over, wrapping his arms around his torso to restrain the force that was yanking the skin of his breast tighter and tighter. His nipples vanished into his armpits. The skin on his bare chest grew thinner, the veins stood out like knotty cables, pulsing with black blood. He was bent nearly double, and knew that he was no longer able to resist it. Suddenly he split open like a troll in the sunlight. His guts and intestines poured out. He tried to keep everything in by seizing hold of the edges of the wound and pulling them together, but it seeped out and ran through his fingers, collecting at his feet like the entrails of a slaughtered animal. His heart was still beating, trapped behind his ribs, terrified, pounding. He stood like that for a long time, bent double and gasping. He opened one eye and cast an anxious glance down his body. His abdominal cavity was empty. The outpour had stopped. He clumsily began to gather up what had come out, stuffing it back in with one hand while he held on to his skin with the other, to prevent it from sliding out again. Nothing was in the right place; there were strange bulges everywhere, but if he could get the wound closed, no one would know. He wasn't made like other people, though this wasn't plain to see. He held on to the skin with his left hand, continuing to shove with his right. At last he got most of it inside again. Only a small spattering of blood was left on the steps. He pressed hard on the wound and felt it starting to close up, breathing cautiously so it would not open again. The sun was still shining through the trees, its white beams as sharp as swords. But he was whole again. Everything had happened too fast. He shouldn't have gone straight from bed out into the sunlight. He had always moved in a different space, seeing the world through a murky veil that took the sting out of the light and the sounds coming from outside. He held the veil in place by concentrating hard. A moment ago he had slipped up, had run out into the new day without taking stock, like a child. His punishment seemed unreasonably harsh. Because as he slept on the dark bed, he had dreamed about something that made him sit bolt upright and then rush outside without thinking. He closed his eyes and recalled some images. H