wakdjunkaga
Synopsis
Joshua Symonds, a psychiatrist, attempts to break through to a withdrawn, long-term convict at Iowaʼs institute for the criminally insane, James Arkham, to learn why Arkham, once a mild-mannered English teacher (who insists on his innocence), may have murdered his friend and boss a decade before — only to be drawn himself, once the former teacher does begin to talk, into a web of fearful confusion and danger centered near a small town in eastern Iowa.
Excerpt
He asked me if I had ever driven around the county. I had gone to Arnhem on 54 and on through Mantorville to Bailey and Cross Corners out of 61. And I had driven the river road from Arnhem to Machen and then on up to Dubuque. And I had taken Q11 across from Mantorville to 61, too, by then, my only actual county road. But I donʼt think I remembered to tell Frank about that one then. In fact, Iʼm pretty sure I didnʼt.
Anyway, none of that impressed him very much.
“Nah,” he said, “I mean getting back in the country hereabouts.”
I admitted that I hadnʼt, and he laughed. “Me neither…” His words hung in the air of my room, pretty close and humid for what must have been the end of September, like I said about two weeks before his incident on the playing field.
“Me neither…” he repeated. “Not until last weekend. Saturday night.” And again nothing more.
Finally, I asked him, “Did something happen last Saturday?”
He nodded, then looked down at me, sharply. (I told you he was pretty tall, didnʼt I? And I was sitting at my desk, him standing across from me. I remember that.) “Uh, Mr. Arkham, this is just between us, you and me, right? Because it, uh, it has to be. I mean, nothing goes any further, you know…”
“Well, Frank,” I said, trying to be the full professional, “there are things I have to report, you know. I canʼt keep certain things secret.”
He grinned. “Yeah, like abuse and that. Teachers and doctors, you have to report it. — Nothing like that. Donʼt worry.”
“…And there are… other things, too.”
“Yeah, well, I got this far, Mr. Arkham, letʼs go for it.” But he stopped and paced away from the desk. Finally, from thee other side of the classroom, he said, “I donʼt think anyone much cares around here anyway. They all did it when they were young, you know. And some of the dads buy stuff for the team…”
“What are you talking about, Frank?”
“Drinking.” He turned around to face me again. “The whole, team, Mr. Arkham. They go out drinking after the games. And on Saturday nights, too. All of them — us. Pretty much.”
“Ah, yes,” I hesitated. “That would, you know, fall under the heading of things I should report…”
Now my pause hung in the air.
