Chapter 8
Nikolai watched through the two-way mirror as sweat pearled on Frode's skin. He stared straight ahead, his eyes unmoving.
Isaac had removed the rug and put it out of Frode's reach a moment after he'd touched it and sat waiting across from him. When a drop of sweat trickled down the side of Frode's face, he winced.
"Frode?" Isaac's voice was soft and filled with worry. It made Nikolai hold his breath.
No reaction.
A few seconds later, Frode started to shake. Nikolai blew out a choppy breath. Fuck. If he was faking, he was a good actor. Frode snapped his teeth together, his jaw tense, then Isaac made a sound before cursing loudly. He shot to his feet and gripped Frode's shoulders.
"Frode? Hey, man, are you in there?" Isaac looked toward the mirror. "Are you there, Nikolai? I need tissues and a bottle of water."
Before Nikolai could move, Frode threw up all over the table. Isaac moved fast. He got the rug out of the way and saved both Frode's glove and the box of raisins.
It looked as if Frode would faceplant in the vomit, but Isaac caught his shoulders and managed to get him to slump back against the backrest instead. His hair was damp with sweat, as if he'd been in a sauna.
"Nikolai? Something to clean up with, please."
Fuck. Nikolai got moving. He hurried out of the room, found a bucket and some cleaning supplies.
Before he made it back, Hjalmar came running through the entrance.
His eyes were stormy; his fists curled at his sides.
Fuuuck. Nikolai winced, and apparently, it was all the confirmation Hjalmar needed.
He stomped toward him, and Nikolai straightened his back.
"If he's not okay, I'm gonna fucking kill you." The icy tone wasn't one he'd ever directed toward Nikolai before.
"He's...eh..."
"Where is he?"
"Interview room one."
The impact as Hjalmar moved past him was akin to something you'd see on a hockey rink, but Nikolai didn't retaliate. Instead, he hurried after Hjalmar, bucket in hand.
As they reached the room, Isaac sent them a pleading look.
"How long?" Hjalmar shrugged out of his jacket and threw it in the corner behind Frode, then he rolled up his sleeves.
"A few minutes. I'm not sure how long. Feels like ages." Isaac moved away to give Hjalmar room. The room stank of vomit, and Nikolai stared at the cleaning supplies in his hands. Urgh. He turned and left the room only to come back moments later with a window squeegee.
Holding the bucket to the edge of the table, he scraped the surface while breathing through his mouth. Once he'd gathered up what had once been a spicy halloumi burger, he left the room without a word and went to the bathroom to get rid of the contents of the bucket.
Minutes later, when he reentered the room, Isaac had sprayed down the table and was scrubbing it. The scent of someone having been sick was almost conquered by lemony detergent.
He looked over at Frode and Hjalmar and realized Frode's eyes were focused. Hjalmar was guiding him through some breathing exercises.
When Isaac left to put the cleaning supplies away, Nikolai followed him.
"Is it always like this?"
He shook his head; his lips pressed into a thin line.
"I've seen him throw up once before, but not until after he came back into himself.
That time, he grabbed a trash can, retched, apologized, and went to dispose of it.
Nothing like this." Isaac stopped by the sink in the small kitchen and washed his hands.
"He bit himself. It was why I asked for a tissue.
There was blood on his lips. I don't know if it's his lip or his tongue, but then he got sick, so... a tissue was too little too late."
"What happens now?"
Isaac shrugged. "First, he has to come back to himself. Then we'll see if he can tell us anything. We don't have any photos lined up to show him. No suspects, right? So maybe we should call in Mr. Yeager."
"Who?"
"The forensic artist. They know each other, have worked together many times. I doubt Frode is up for it today, though."
Nikolai frowned. "We have to act fast before he forgets." If he had seen anything at all.
Isaac stared at him. "Forgets?" Then he shook his head and headed toward the room. Nikolai had the feeling Isaac wasn't happy with him either. He sighed and followed.
In the room, Frode had both his gloves on and was eating raisins. "You touched my glove." His voice was thin and shaky as he glared at Isaac.
"Sorry. You threw up, and I didn't want it to get...soaked." He grimaced.
Frode nodded. "I have new ones at home."
"Sorry."
A barely-there shrug.
Nikolai didn't speak, and no one was looking at him.
Isaac took a deep breath. "Can you tell us anything?"
"Many people have touched the rug."
"Yeah, I got that early on. Sorry."
Hjalmar snarled, and Isaac winced. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have."
"Damn right, you shouldn't have! When he says no, you listen." He whirled on Nikolai. "You don't fucking push!"
Nikolai opened his mouth to defend himself, but Hjalmar was in his face before he had a chance.
"And don't you fucking dare try to make it sound as if it wasn't your fault.
I know you. I know you insulted him until he agreed.
I know how you act, but I never believed you'd do it to my brother.
" He thumped a fist against his chest, then a mix of a huff and a laugh left him as he shook his head.
"I never got it. I tried to get Frode to like you, tried to get him to hang out with us.
You were my best fucking friend growing up.
How could it be my brother disappeared every time you came around? "
"Hey!" Nikolai raised his hands, but he didn't have more to say.
He had insulted Frode until he'd agreed.
He'd said no, and Nikolai had pushed, had been rude because it was a tactic that often worked.
People got angry and wanted to prove him wrong or said things they hadn't meant to say.
Was he a dick? Sure. Did he make many friends? No. But it worked.
"We're leaving." Hjalmar turned around and focused on Frode. "Are you able to stand?"
Frode nodded but didn't move. His hands were shaking, and while he wasn't actively sweating anymore, his hair was still damp.
"Did you bite your tongue?" Nikolai's voice was raspy. "Isaac said there was blood on your lip before you threw up."
Confused dark eyes met Nikolai's, then Frode licked his lips, frowned and moved his tongue around inside his mouth. "Cheek. Not too bad."
Hjalmar sighed. "Come on. Food, water, sleep, shower." He grabbed Frode's arm and pulled him off the chair. He wobbled as if drunk, and when his legs threatened to fold, Hjalmar wound an arm around Frode's waist and glared at Nikolai.
For fuck's sake. It wasn't his fault.
"Can I call you later, Frode?" Isaac spoke softly.
"Sure, should be fun."
Isaac smiled, and Nikolai held in a sigh as Hjalmar helped Frode out of the room.
"Now what?" He directed the question to Isaac, who shrugged.
"See if he can give us anything to go on. But maybe we aren't equipped for a case of this size. I'm surprised there isn't someone federal coming to take it from us."
He didn't sound too bothered by the prospect of handing the case over. Nikolai wanted to nail this fucker. He didn't want some agent strolling in and taking over.
"How soon can Frode touch the second rug?"
Isaac stared at him, then shook his head. "Never."
Anger ignited. "What's that supposed to mean? It's his fucking job."
"No, it's not. He helps us if and when he feels like it. It's not his job to solve our cases, it's ours. And I can't believe you're willing to sacrifice your best friend's brother."
"He'll be fine."
Isaac shook his head, and something close to shame curled in Nikolai's gut. "He will, right?"
"I hope so."
"What do you mean, you hope so? You've worked with him before, you know how he works."
The sigh was annoyed. "All I know is there have been cases when he's ended up unconscious in the hospital. Not any of mine, thank God, but you realize he takes a risk every time he touches something, right?"
Nikolai nodded. He still wasn't sure Frode was a psychic, though if he wasn't, he'd put on one hell of a performance. The shaking, the sweating, the bitten cheek, and the vomiting. Not to mention Hjalmar's reaction.
* * * *
Frode wasn't clear on how they made it home, but when Hjalmar helped him to the couch, he groaned, thankful for being there.
"How bad is it?"
"I've had worse." He had. Several times. He wished he could melt into the cushions and disappear for a few days, sleep until the throbbing pain in his head was gone, until his hands stopped shaking, and his legs could carry his weight without problem, but it wasn't too bad.
"You need food."
He did, but he was still nauseated. Patting his pockets, he brought out the red Sun-Maid box and ate some raisins. The sweet taste flooded his mouth, and he sighed. "There are some leftovers in the fridge."
Hjalmar nodded and headed to the kitchen.
He was not happy, and Frode almost wished he could be there when he'd have it out with Nikolai.
Though maybe he'd simmer down before it came to blows.
Hjalmar had always made excuses for Nikolai.
He was only joking, he was only saying shit because of his stupid-ass family, he doesn't mean anything by it, he's a good friend once you get to know him, and so on.
Frode didn't believe this would be the end of their friendship. Not at all. Hjalmar was worried now, but once Frode was back to his normal self, this whole thing would be forgotten.
His phone rang, and he groaned. He'd said Elmore could call him, but he hadn't more than made it back to the house.
"Yes?" He sighed the word into the phone.
"Eh...Mr. Bakke?"
Fuck, not Elmore. "Yes, sorry."
"Carl Yeager here. Detective Nesterova called and said we had a composite drawing to get to."
Frode wanted to snarl. "Did he?"
Hjalmar appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, a thunderous expression on his face.
"I'm no good today, Mr. Yeager. Are you available tomorrow?"
"Yes, of course. I...eh..." It sounded as if he was moving papers around. "I have a meeting at ten, but my afternoon is free."
Frode liked Yeager. He was a soft-spoken man, who always managed to ask the right questions.
When Frode got stuck trying to describe the appearance of the face forever trapped in his mind, Yeager managed to get him to focus on one detail at the time, little by little building up to a life-like image.
"I can do the afternoon." He hoped his headache would be long gone by then.
"Good. I'll book out a few hours. Shall we start at one?"
"Sounds perfect."
They said goodbye, and by the time Frode put down the phone again, Hjalmar stood with his feet wide apart, and his arms crossed over his chest. "Who was it?"
Since he'd heard the conversation, the question was stupid, but Frode didn't have the energy to tell him so. "Yeager. Nesterova had called him and said we had a drawing to do."
Hjalmar's lips thinned.
"I'm fine. Or I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow. Yeager is cool. I don't mind working with him."
"No, I know. And I think the feeling is mutual. He's only ever had good things to say about you. It's the time frame that annoys me."
Frode could only nod. He wasn't a fan of the time frame either, but hopefully, he'd be fine tomorrow.
The microwave pinged, and he scrunched his nose. He needed to eat. The nausea wouldn't go away until he did, but he wasn't hungry. His eyelids were heavy, and he wanted to give in and allow them to close.
Hjalmar came back carrying a green plate of steaming spicy Brazilian coconut chicken and rice. Frode had white plates no one other than he touched, then he had four sets of green plates meant for guests. He only ever had Hjalmar over, but the green plates were for visitors.
He almost never took his gloves off other than when to sleep and shower, but if he wanted to be rid of them for some time, it was nice knowing the white plates were safe to touch.
Pushing up into a sitting position, Frode accepted the plate. He put some into his mouth and winced at the burn. Too hot. Hjalmar sighed and handed him a glass of water.
"How sure are you of having the image of the murderer?"
Frode scrunched his nose and ate another forkful of rice. "I can't know for sure he's the killer, but he touched the rug both before the victim and after, before the forensic team."
Hjalmar nodded.
"Best would be to touch another--"
"No."
Frode didn't want to, so he didn't continue the sentence.
"The bodies were staged on the rugs, so it makes sense it's him.
Unless someone else killed them, and he only did the staging.
There was another man before the suspect.
I guess I'll have to ask Yeager to sketch them both.
" His words grew increasingly slurred, and he forced down a few more bites of food, but it was hard to keep his eyes open.
When he realized he only had one eye open, he huffed. Hjalmar took the plate from him. "Sleep."
"I should eat more."
"Mmm, but I don't think it's gonna happen. I'll reheat it when you wake again."
Frode closed his eyes. "You should go back to work. I'll be fine."
Hjalmar said something, but he wasn't sure what.
* * * *