Through His Eyes (Mind's Eye Book 1)

by Deborah Camp

  Levi propped his hands on his hips and stared down at the carpet, his fingers drumming across his hips bones. He exuded deep concentration. She could almost feel the information whizzing through his nimble, brilliant mind.

  “He’s envious,” he said, glancing at her, his breathing rapid and choppy. “They have what he wants and they don’t appreciate it . . . or he doesn’t think they do. It’s like Dr. Karen Horney theorized.”

  Trudy shook her head. He’d lost her.

  “The feminist psychoanalyst,” he said. “Autogynephilia, a love of oneself as a woman. Dr. Horney said that men experience womb and breast envy more powerfully than women experience penis envy because men need to disparage women more than women need to disparage men.”

  Trudy raised her brows. “I like this psychoanalyst.”

  “Yeah, well I think Dr. Ray Blanchard actually coined the name for the condition.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, this guy might have a tendency to be sexually aroused by the thought or the image of himself as a woman. It’s very complicated and I’m not doing the theories justice.”

  Trudy marveled at the complex man standing before her. One moment he was going on about “nuts to the nth degree” and the next he was spouting psychology terms that made her eyes cross. She couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across her face.

  He noticed and tilted his head. “What?”

  “You. Levi, the psychologist!”

  A shy smile overtook him, but then he shook it off. “My degrees are showing.” He rested his fists against the edge of the table and his eyes locked on hers – blue to green. “Trudy! Do you know what you’ve done? You have broken this sonofabitching case wide open!” He kissed her hard, but then in the next moment his lips softened on hers and his hand came up to cradle the back of her head. She parted her lips and his tongue skimmed across them before dipping inside. Her heart kicked into overdrive and she lifted her hand to caress the side of his face. His morning whiskers tickled her palm.

  He ended the kiss and she opened her eyes. His were dark blue now, desirous blue. “You’re amazing, did you know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, you are. Call Sinclair and tell him what you’ve figured out.”

  “What we figured out,” she amended.

  He shook his head. “No, it was you. Own it. I would.” He brushed his lips across hers and his smile was sweetly salacious. “Save my place. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He grabbed his cell phone. “To the cabin. I want to call Dr. Franz Wooten in Geneva. He’s a gender specialist and he’ll have some good psychological insight into this crazy motherfucker.” He started out, then hesitated and looked over his shoulder at her. “I just had a thought.”

  “What?” she asked, twisting around in the booth to look at him.

  “He was glad his cock was flaccid . . . flexible . . . because he could tuck again.”

  “Tuck?” she repeated, shaking her head. “What’s that?”

  “Tuck his penis. It’s what female impersonators do so that their packages won’t show under slinky or tight dresses and skirts. They shove their testicles up inside them, then pull their cock back and wrap the excess skin around it to hold it in place.”

  She blinked at him. “Good grief! You can shove your balls up inside you?”

  “Yes. Sure. After all, testicles start as ovaries that fall out of us when we turn into males. They can be shoved back inside.”

  “But doesn’t that hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t sound comfortable to me, but I don’t know. I’ve never tried it. Even though he was dressed as a man again, he might have wanted to tuck because he likes the feeling. I’ll ask Dr. Wooten about it.”

  “How did you know about tucking?” she asked, giving him a ribbing grin.

  He glanced up and tried to keep the smile from overtaking him. “I read about it somewhere.”

  “Oh, sure,” she noted, dubiously. “Probably in a professional journal of some kind.”

  “Probably. The Psychology of Female Impersonation and Manipulation of the Male Apparatus,” he rejoined. “Get some rest, you brilliant witch, you.”

  She made a face at him, but he didn’t see it. He was already out the door with Mouse barking after him, still irritated at him, no doubt, for dumping her.

  ###

  A rapping on the RV’s door roused Trudy from her nap. She scrambled from the bed and padded through the RV, glancing at the digital clock on the oven. Half past noon. She opened the door to Levi.

  “I woke you?” he asked, stepping inside.

  “Yes.” She pushed her fingers through her hair, giving it a rough combing. “Do you have news?”

  He nodded. “They found the body a couple of hours ago.”

  “Oh.” She rested a hand against her heart where the news had sent an arrow of pain. “Well, thank God. Who found her?”

  “Her boyfriend stopped by to check on her. She’s a waitress and she didn’t show up for work this morning. Her name is Amanda Duncan.”

  Trudy slumped onto the sofa, feeling drained and still a little groggy. “How horrible for him.”

  “That’s the bad news.”

  “You have good news?” she asked, dubiously.

  “I do. I have an invitation from Captain Delbert Phillips to meet with him at police headquarters. If he thinks I’m sane, then he’s going to allow me to check out the murder scene today.” He sat on the couch beside her.

  She gripped his arm, turning to face him. “No kidding? So soon? Maybe you can find out how she knew the perp and hopefully get his name!”

  “That’s exactly what Sinclair told Captain Phillips. So, let’s hope I make a good impression.”

  “I’m sure you will. You look sane to me.”

  He grinned. “Well, considering the source . . .” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re not upset that you weren’t invited, too?”

  “I don’t need to be there. You can handle that all by yourself. In fact, while you’re at the police station, I might take a break from all this ugliness and go shopping.”

  “For what?”

  “Key West souvenirs for me and my family.”

  He placed a hand on her thigh. “Don’t you want to go to the crime scene with me?”

  “I’ll pass this time.”

  “I understand.” He slipped an arm around her and drew her against him.

  “So, when are we going?” She smiled and thought about how easy it would be to get used to being held by him, comforted by him.

  “My appointment with the captain is at two.”

  “Oh! That’s great. I’ll get ready.” She sat up and gave him a once-over, taking in the shadows under his eyes. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You didn’t get much sleep last night either.”

  “I’m up for it.” He leaned in and gave her a hard, smacking kiss. “I’m always up for it.”

  Taking in his wiggling eyebrows and devilish smirk, she narrowed her eyes. “No, Levi. Not now.” She pulled him up from the couch with her and pushed him toward the door. “Out!”

  ###

  Sitting in the back of the police cruiser, Levi checked his wristwatch. It was almost half past noon. His meeting with Captain Phillips had taken longer than he’d expected. Phillips was the standard issue cop – bald, brown chevron mustache, hooded gaze, built like a tank, polite but giving nothing away. He had questioned Levi about the cases he had worked, his books, how often he got things right, and when he had been wrong. The usual questions that Levi had answered many times before. Levi had learned to be honest but modest, candid but careful when dealing with police officers.

  Phillips was shrewd and he hadn’t been on board with Levi visiting the murder scene, so Levi had downplayed all the hocus pocus of psychic work and had focused on gathering evidence. He had taken note of the signed baseball sitting in a dome on the credenza behind the detective’s tidy desk.

&nb
sp; “I know your department is on this like white on rice,” Levi had told him. “I know you’re going to catch this sick sonofabitch. I just want a chance at bat . . . to see if I can possibly help. If I fan out. . .” He had smiled. “Well, it sure as hell won’t be the first time and it won’t affect your investigation.”

  That had broken the ice and Phillips had chatted with him about the case for a few more minutes before phoning Tom Sinclair, who was at the murder scene.

  “Sinclair, is the evidence collecting done?” Phillips had asked. “Good. Stay put. I’m sending Levi Wolfe over.” Then he’d pinned Levi with a steady, squinty glare. “I don’t want to hear any shit from you on TV or anywhere else about us not cooperating or not doing a good job. You got that, Wolfe?”

  “Loud and clear,” Levi had said, holding onto his temper. “I think you have me confused with someone else, Captain. I work with the police. Never against them.”

  Asshole. Levi yanked at the knot of his tie, agitated as he sat in the back of the squad car and wished that Trudy was next to him. She would have made this more pleasant, more tolerable. He closed his eyes for a few moments as scenes from last night replayed in his mind. She was everything and more than he had dreamed she’d be. His connection to her was so strong, it floored him. He couldn’t shake the intense possessiveness he felt for Trudy or the ever-present concern that she would get so close to him that she’d be able to really know him and then leave him. And he’d be destroyed.

  Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to shrug off a nagging feeling that had been dogging him all morning. It made him uneasy and he kept worrying about Trudy. He checked his phone. No text or call from her. He decided to text her.

  Heading for the crime scene. Should be back to the station in an hour or so.

  He stared at the back of the heads of the two cops in the front seat. They chatted amiably, laughing and smiling, joshing each other. It made him miss Trudy even more. His phone vibrated and he read the text.

  All shopped out! The murder spree is ending. I feel it. See you soon.

  Slipping the phone into his breast pocket, he hoped she was right. Something was going to happen . . . he just wasn’t sure what.

  The squad car turned into the driveway of a small, pale pink house with a red roof. A white picket fence ran around the front yard. The sight of this scrap of Home Sweet Americana tightened Levi’s throat. So perfect on the outside, he thought, and so hellish on the inside. Sort of like the homes he’d known as a kid.

  With a heavy sigh, he opened the car door and unfolded his frame from the backseat. He stretched and gathered his composure, preparing himself for the horror to come.

  The porch was just big enough for two chairs and a small table. The railings were draped with yellow police tape and an officer stood at the front door, checking credentials.

  “This is Levi Wolfe,” one of the squad car cops told the front sentry. “Phillips sent him over.”

  “Right.” The other cop moved aside. “Sinclair’s in there waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.” Levi stepped into a small living room of Amanda Duncan’s home. He glanced over the white walls decorated with cheap art and framed family photos, the ubiquitous leather couch, rattan rocker, and tweedy recliner, an area rug, and a 52-inch flat screen TV that dominated the whole space. Straight ahead he glimpsed a dining room and kitchen. Sinclair stepped into view from a hallway off the dining room. He nodded at Levi and motioned him over.

  “She was killed in the bedroom back here,” the detective said by way of greeting.

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Uh . . . right here between the two bedrooms,” Sinclair said, giving Levi a quizzical look.

  Levi stepped into the bathroom first, knowing that “Zelda” had probably been in there changing clothes. “Did they dust for prints in here?”

  “I guess so.” Sinclair stuck his head in. “Yeah, there’s some dust here on the door and over there above the sink.”

  Levi nodded. “Okay. Which bedroom?”

  “Here, to the left.”

  Gathering in a big breath, Levi moved into the room where sunlight poured into two large windows, spotlighting a king-sized bed that took up most of the space. A narrow chest of drawers and a bedside table were squeezed in. A double closet took up one whole wall. The murder had happened on the bed. It was blood-stained, now dry and crusty. Levi removed his camera from his leather satchel and snapped a few photos as he regulated his breathing and started clearing his mind of all superfluous thoughts.

  “As soon as you’re done here, we’ll take all the bed linens and other things as evidence. Try not to touch anything. What do you need?” Sinclair asked.

  Levi put the camera into the satchel and shook his head. “Nothing. It will help if you just stay out of my way and don’t talk to me.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Taking out the e-notebook, he opened it and jotted down a few impressions. The huge bed. A broken lamp. Sheets ripped. Pillows stabbed over and over again. Candles scattered across the top of the bureau. Jewelry box overturned. Probably something taken from it as a souvenir. He closed the netbook.

  Show time, Wolfe, he thought as he moved to stand next to the bed, his knees bumping against the box springs. He inhaled and exhaled three times as he slowly closed his eyes and let it come . . . let the images swirl and dip and skitter through his mind until they finally stopped . . . focused . . . sucked him in.

  Amanda appeared behind his eyelids. She was lovely, emanating light. He smiled at her and held out his hand. May I? Will you take me back there, angel? She grasped his fingers and pulled him inside her. He became her.

  “This is wrong,” he murmured. “I should be in the hallway.” And so he turned and nearly ran over Sinclair as he walked from the bedroom to the hallway . . . just outside the bathroom.

  “Zelda?” he called, looking at the bathroom. Although he could see into it, his mind could not. The door was closed. Zelda was in there. “Are you okay in there?”

  The door swung open and . . . a shadow moved . . . a man! Who . . . how . . !

  Levi felt the man’s fingers close on his throat and force him back, back, back to the dark bedroom. His eyes widened and he tried to talk, but only garbled sounds escaped. He was bent backward onto the bed as he clawed at the hand that was closing off his airway and stared at a man with a baseball cap pulled low onto his forehead. A Gators baseball cap? It was hard to see anything. What’s that? A knife’s blade glinted in the feeble light leaking in from the living room. In his other hand . . . a big knife with a serrated blade.

  Fighting now. Kicking, fingernails breaking, life being choked out of him. Wait. Oh. She knows him . . . her . . . him? Those dimples. Yeah. It’s him! The man curses.

  “Fucking bitch! Don’t look at me. Stop . . . looking . . . at . . . me!”

  Sudden, excruciating pain dropped him to his knees and he covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. He felt blood gushing from them like hot water, covering his fingers and making everything slippery. Then the dull, lurching, tearing plunges of the knife into his breasts . . . chest . . . across his throat.

  He was dying . . . dying . . . rising up to the light . . . the bright, beautiful light. Then Amanda let him go, let him float back down. Thank you, he said to her. She smiled and her image faded.

  Levi?

  Everything in him stilled. Peace washed over him. A familiar peace he had come to rely on in his darkest hours.

  Gregory? Is something wrong?

  Levi, Ethel is here with me.

  Ethel?

  She’s worried.

  About what?

  Levi, check your phone.

  Okay.

  And Levi?

  Yes, Gregory?

  Ethel has lovely dimples.

  He felt the heat of the sunlight pouring through the windows. Levi opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed that reeked of blood and chemicals. Why the hell had Gregory contacted him? He hardly ever showed up
at a murder recreation. Maybe three or four times before . . . tops. And those were in the early years when the murders sometimes had affected him so deeply or he he’d been so drunk that he’d had trouble moving away from the light and back to the living. Gregory had popped up and guided him, had shown him the way.

  But he’d never brought another spirit with him before.

  “You okay, Wolfe?”

  Sinclair. Levi closed his eyes again for a few seconds, coming back all the way before he tried to stand.

  “Yes.” His voice sounded hoarser. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Did you see him? The murderer?”

  “Not much of him. I saw the lower half of his face and then he took out my eyes – her eyes. He’s about my age and a little shorter than me. He’s a nice looking guy and he . . . he has . . . dimples.”

  “Dimples?”

  Levi turned around to face Sinclair. “Yes. Deep dimples in his cheeks.” Ethel has dimples. “Oh, Christ!” He slammed his eyes shut again as bits of visions that weren’t his, but were borrowed, zipped through his head like a movie that had been fast-forwarded. . . a guy in an Hawaiian shirt and a baseball cap in an outdoor café, smiling at him . . . no, her . . . Amanda. Smiling at Mandy. Asking if he knows her. Maybe he interviewed her once? No? Then at Mallory Square again, but this time Mandy is sharing a joke with Zelda. Her boyfriend is in St. Petersburg and won’t be back until tomorrow. Mandy says she’s glad they ran into each other. She invites Zelda to have a drink . . . at her house. The All American house.

  “She’d met him before,” Levi said, putting it all together. He realized he was trembling and his eyes felt as if they were pulsating in their sockets. The visions had come so quickly, they’d hammered his brain. “She knew him and Zelda, but she didn’t make the connection until he came out of the bathroom.” He opened his eyes and stared at Sinclair, the knowledge bursting through him like a mortar blast. “In as Zelda and out as the guy with the dimples.”