Psychic Obsession

Chapter 1

Frode Bakke pushed a sweat-slicked strand of hair off his forehead and tried to swallow down the bile before it could reach the point of no return. The hair stuck to his shaking hand, and it took a couple of tries to get it out of his face.

He should cut it. Should've cut it months ago.

He couldn't remember when he last had his hair cut.

Years since a professional had done it, but Hjalmar, his big brother, had hacked off a good number of inches about a year ago.

Maybe he should ask him again. Or he could do it himself, if he remembered.

The moment he gained control of his fingers, he slipped on the glove he'd removed from his right hand and reached for the snack-sized red box of raisins. He popped one into his mouth.

The sweet taste was enough of a shock to the system to make some of the nausea disperse but it did nothing about the shaking.

It would go away soon.

Or not.

Some days, he trembled for hours.

With a deep breath, he looked across the table and met Hjalmar's gaze.

His eyes were a startling blue in contrast to Frode's brown ones.

Sometimes he questioned if they were blood-related.

He'd seen the baby pictures, so he was pretty sure they were, but Hjalmar was tall and broad, blue-eyed and blond, with a square jaw and a straight nose.

He looked like a Norse god. Frode was slimmer, darker, and not Norse-god-looking at all.

And then there was the fact of Hjalmar's being a normal man, a great one in Frode's opinion, but there wasn't a lick of psychic ability in him whereas Frode couldn't touch a single thing without being tumbled into the past.

"Anything?" Hjalmar's voice was calm. He was calm. Always. Where others lost patience with him, Hjalmar never did. Maybe because he'd seen the aftermath.

Frode raised an eyebrow, not sure his voice would work yet.

In front of him was a bullet, or not a bullet, a casing. Casings were all right. His contract stated he'd touch casings if the police asked him to--and Hjalmar had asked him to.

Frode worked with the police on a consultant contract. It was the best he could do. In a perfect world, he'd spend the rest of his life in his house, never seeing anyone other than Hjalmar, but he had bills to pay, a mortgage, and sadly food cost money.

Hjalmar worked in drug enforcement, tracked dealers and drug lords, and he was the one who most often requested Frode's help.

Frode ate another raisin from the Sun-Maid box.

"Ready to look at pictures?" Hjalmar was already reaching for a folder.

Frode cleared his throat. "What are you looking for?"

By touching the casing, the faces of everyone who'd touched it before him had flitted through his mind. His brain had more faces stored than should be possible, and he was drowning in them. Once he'd seen them, there was no way to unsee them, and he didn't forget.

He might forget where he'd seen them, forgot which object they'd touched, but he never forgot a face.

He'd read somewhere a normal human brain could remember about five thousand faces.

If Frode was unlucky, he could get five thousand from one single thing, which was why he refused to touch door handles, anything to do with public transportation, the interiors of restaurants, schools, hospitals, and places like that.

There was a long list in his contract.

Hjalmar opened the folder, spun it, and placed row upon row of photos in front of Frode.

"We want to know who was there. A man was shot to death, we know which gang he's connected to, and we have a pretty good idea where the order to take him out came from, but we don't know who did it."

"And it's important?" Frode hated knowing he'd have a murderer stored in his mind for the rest of his life. Though, this man wasn't the first, and most likely wouldn't be the last.

"We're trying to get an idea of what's going on.

These two gangs used to work together. They both get their product from the same cartel.

" He shrugged. "We need to get to the higher-ups, and the shot guy isn't at the bottom.

He's not at the top, but a few steps up the ladder. Every piece of information helps."

Frode sighed. All he could give Hjalmar was a face, but sometimes it was all he needed.

"You have him? You know who he is?"

He didn't know who he was. It wasn't like a name popped up. Frode ate another raisin then dug his trembling fingers into his thighs in an attempt to still them.

"You were the first." Which made perfect sense since he saw the most recent contact first. "Then the evidence woman.

" She wasn't the only one who got evidence out of storage, but it was often her.

"Then the forensic woman." Considering he'd worked for the police for over a decade, he should know the names of the people on the forensic team, but he wasn't interested enough to learn them, and he only ever saw them for a second.

He recognized their faces and could rule them out.

Which was enough for him. He never minded seeing them.

It was calming to work with the same people over and over again.

It made it easier for his brain to handle.

"Dubose."

Frode nodded, not because he knew her name, but he was sure Hjalmar did. "And the cute guy from the forensic team."

A flicker of a smile. "Saylor."

"His name is Saylor?" It was a name his brain should've stored.

"Jaxon Saylor."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, why?"

"It sounds like a made-up name."

"Like Frode Bakke?"

Frode scowled. Out of the two of them, he believed he'd drawn the winning ticket in the name lottery. Their mother's love for everything Norwegian was insane, and a lot of people had teased him for his name through the years, but he still believed it was better than Hjalmar.

"Way cooler than Frode Bakke."

"You only say that because you think he's cute."

Frode was aware of what he was doing. This teasing was to calm him, to help center him, and he appreciated it, he did, but he also wanted this over with so he could go home and not pick up his phone for a day or two.

"Next is a man I haven't seen before."

Hjalmar nodded. "What does he look like?"

Frode closed his eyes. "Mid-forties, perhaps. Dark, almost black hair. I want to say Italian, but I'm basing it on his colors. Could be entirely wrong. Handsome."

Hjalmar nudged the folder with the photos closer to him, and he forced himself to focus on them. He looked at one at the time before moving on to the next.

When he turned the page, Hjalmar stiffened. Frode looked up at him. "You expected him to be on the first page?"

"Yeah."

Shaking his head, he continued assessing the photos. Hjalmar always placed his top suspects on the first page to make this part as short as possible. Frode crashed after a reading and needed to rest, as Hjalmar knew.

Frode appreciated everything he did. He did, despite snarling at him for it at times.

It was different when he worked with other agents and detectives. They were not as accommodating.

On the last row on the fourth page, he found him. It was a photo taken of the man from afar as he exited a building, but recognition sang in Frode's bones.

He tapped a gloved finger at it. "There he is."

Hjalmar spun the folder around so fast, Frode hardly managed to get his hand away in time.

"Are you kidding me?"

Stupid questions don't deserve any answers, so Frode kept quiet.

"That's--" Hjalmar pressed his lips together. "He's up top, not at the absolute top, but he sure as hell hangs out with them on a regular basis. I didn't think he did any dirty work anymore."

Frode still didn't speak. He didn't want to know. He touched things and pointed at photos. It was as deep into police work as he was willing to get. "I hope it helps."

Hjalmar stared at him. "Yeah...Yeah, only have to prove it, you know."

Because while they wanted Frode's input, his saying something didn't make it stick in court.

All he had were words, and no one could trust a lunatic like Frode Bakke.

If they could've broken into his brain to see what he saw, then maybe it would've helped, but the few times he'd been asked to come to court to talk about his part in the investigation, everything he'd said had been dismissed.

"Am I free to go?"

"Let me drive you home." Hjalmar flipped the folder shut. Frode wanted to snarl at him, but he was in no shape to drive. He never was after having touched something, which was why he'd taken a cab here. "We'll grab lunch on the way. You need to eat."

Frode wanted to protest, wanted to bark at him to mind his own fucking business, but he did need to eat. The tremors and the floatiness in his mind wouldn't go away before he'd eaten and gotten some rest.

They moved toward the door, and Frode steeled himself.

He didn't want to go out there, didn't want to go to Hjalmar's desk where people would talk to them.

The sneers weren't as obvious when Hjalmar was by his side, but it only made him feel worse.

They were all deceiving Hjalmar. Fuckers.

Pretended to be friendly, then, when Hjalmar wasn't around, they'd turn into schoolyard bullies.

Frode could handle bullies. He wasn't a scared kid anymore, and he'd come to realize, in many cases, they acted as they did because they feared him. Plus, he'd learned how to be rude.

He hated cops. All kinds of them--didn't matter if they were officers, detectives, agents, and whatever the correct term for the brass was. Most of them were small-dicked insecure excuses of men. They flashed their badges and believed it made them superior to everyone else. Pathetic.

And sometimes they needed to be told.

He ran a gloved hand through his hair. No longer sweat-slicked, but grimy. He needed a shower despite having showered before he got here.

"Ready?" Hjalmar waited with his hand on the door handle, and Frode had to force down the urge to push him out of the way and throw the door open simply to get it over with.

"Yeah." He tugged at his gloves to make sure they were in place--they always were.