Chapter 5 #2
He took a turn down a cobblestone road with old buildings crammed together. They were beautiful, but he never wanted to live here. Not enough space, and what if he happened to touch something? How many people had touched these door handles over the last couple of hundred years?
He stopped outside a tiny white stone church.
1787 it said with big wrought-iron digits fastened to the church tower.
The wrought-iron fence surrounding the small church yard looked to have been made around the same time.
If he touched the handle on the gate, he'd knock himself out. No question about it.
How many people had walked through it? How many had touched the handle? His brain would store them all. It wouldn't matter if they'd passed away a hundred years ago. If they'd touched the gate handle, he'd carry their image around in his mind forever.
Or until his head exploded.
Sometimes he wondered if it would come to that. He was thirty-seven now. He'd collected faces for about twenty years. If he did for another twenty, would his mind be able to handle it? Or would he put himself in a vegetative state?
It was his biggest fear.
If he touched the gate, he'd most likely end up in a coma for days. Maybe. But what if, when he'd done it one too many times, he never got out of it?
His phone rang again, and he snarled but didn't look at it. Instead, he scanned the surroundings, hands curled into fists in his pockets.
There was an old painting in the local museum of a salmon auction in the late 1800s. He believed it was from farther down this street. An artist had captured the fishermen auctioning off their catch. So many people who'd lived their lives in these cobblestoned alleys.
He curled his fingers tighter in his pocket, instantly afraid two layers of fabric wouldn't be enough to protect him from seeing them all.
His phone rang again, and this time he grabbed it.
Hjalmar.
Fuck. He hurried to accept the call. "Sorry."
"Where are you?"
"St. Laurentii." He looked up at the church again.
Hjalmar swore. It was the oldest church still standing in the city, and Hjalmar knew what touching something this old would do to him.
One time, before Frode had fully understood how his skill worked, he'd touched a door handle to a concert hall.
It was a relatively new building, but it had been there long enough.
His family had been called to the hospital.
The doctors hadn't been able to figure out what was wrong.
How could someone be unconscious when there was nothing obviously wrong with them?
Fun times.
He'd learned his lesson. It was the last time he'd gone outside without gloves. Most often, he wore gloves inside too.
"I'm okay."
"We're having lunch."
Frode scrunched his nose. "You should go back to work."
"We are having lunch. I'm not going anywhere until I see you."
"Have you any idea how exhausting you are?"
Hjalmar hummed. "So you told homicide to go fuck themselves?"
"I did not. I only said: Nope. Then I left. I talked a little to...eh...the happy blond dude."
"The happy blond dude?"
"Yeah, you know the one. He's been with homicide for a few years, pretty cute if a bit too bouncy."
Hjalmar groaned. "Isaac Elmore. You've worked with him several times. Maybe it's time to learn his name."
Frode smiled for the first time in ages. "Nah, I think we're good."
Hjalmar snort-laughed. "Lunch at Overtime?"
Overtime was nearby. It would only take him a few minutes to walk there.
"Fine. You're buying."
"Always."
They hung up, and Frode looked up at the church tower one last time before walking down the uneven road toward the newer parts of town. Soon, he was on paved ground instead of cobblestone. The buildings grew taller, the roads wider, and there were people. Ugh.
He tucked his chin against his chest and continued forward until the gaudy colors of Overtime stared back at him.
He wasn't opposed to sports; he liked watching hockey, kept track of the football scores, and so on, but he preferred to watch the games at home in his house, on his TV, with no people around.
Hjalmar was allowed to watch with him, but going to a bar like this came pretty high on his list of things he never wanted to do.
He pushed open the door and scanned the tables. No Hjalmar. Fuck. He nodded at the woman behind the bar and headed for a table in the corner. Should he order? Nah, better wait for Hjalmar. If he was called away, Frode would go home instead of eating here.
No more than two minutes later, Hjalmar and Nikolai fucking Nesterova walked through the door. When Hjalmar's gaze met his, he scowled. Hjalmar shrugged and winced, and Frode started to slide off his chair, ready to leave.
"Sit."
"I'll eat at home instead."
Hjalmar reached for him but never made contact--always so careful. "Sit. You can have a fucking meal together without killing each other."
Frode stared at him. Why did he want him to be anywhere near Nikolai? And what the fuck was Nikolai doing here? He'd made it clear he didn't want Frode on the case.
"Why waste my time with fucking Nesterova? The two of you can have lunch, and I can enjoy the rest of my day without having idiots around."
Hjalmar's eyes widened. "Eh...You're eating. I won't let you leave without you having eaten something."
Frode sneered. "You won't let me?"
Hjalmar sometimes forgot Frode was an adult, and while Hjalmar might be physically capable of making Frode do whatever he wanted, he never would. He couldn't wrestle him to the ground in a public place, and apart from a careful clap on the shoulder, Hjalmar never touched him.
It used to annoy Frode. He could do touch, but Hjalmar was careful.
Nikolai hadn't said a word; all he did was study Frode, so he glared at him. He got raised palms in return.
"Frode, please." Hjalmar gave him puppy eyes. Fucker. Frode sighed and slumped back into his chair.
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