The District. Carol Ericson

a palpable curtain dropping around her, smothering her. He’d been here.

      She jerked her head up, her eyes narrowing. She shed her jacket and secured her weapon in her holster. The bark of the tree chaffed her palms as she grabbed the first branch with both hands. She hoisted herself up and planted the rubber soles of her practical shoes against the trunk. Walking up the tree trunk, she lunged for the next branch and then swung her legs over the side of it.

      Straddling the branch, she could just see over the top of the lower bushes and trees that bordered the jogging trail. She pulled herself into a crouch and reached for the next branch that curved against the trunk—a natural seat, a window on the world.

      She nestled her back against the trunk, her legs hanging over the side of the branch. Lieutenant Fitch came into view, pointing and gesturing with his hands—which she’d noticed before were sprinkled with red hair—basically running the show.

      Farther down the trail a clutch of people crowded against the yellow police tape, all leaning toward the crime scene like magnets drawn to some irresistible force.

      She got it. The same morbid curiosity had propelled her into a job with a special serial killer unit within the FBI. She’d been fascinated with these crimes ever since she’d followed the Phone Book Killer case at the tender age of twelve.

      She shivered—that fascination, along with an uncanny ability to empathize with both the killers and their victims, drove her to this work. She didn’t really empathize with the killers, but for some reason she could tune in to their thought processes. Not that she’d ever told anyone that before—anyone but Eric.

      And that had been a colossal mistake.

      She sat up straighter on the branch and peered at the trail beyond the spectators. He would’ve seen her coming from this vantage point. Would’ve been able to jump from his lookout post and intercept her on the trail, introducing her to the sharp edge of his knife.

      She took a deep breath. Was that artificial smell among the natural elements cologne? Tobacco?

      She reached for the branch above her to lean forward and scope out the ground. Her fingers collided with the smooth edge of a card. She snatched her hand away, curled one leg beneath her and slowly rose from her seated position.

      Someone had shoved another tarot card in the crack of some mottled bark. She pulled a tissue from her pocket. Pinching the card between two tissue-covered fingers, she plucked it from its hiding place. She turned the card over.

      The fool.

      Her nerve endings buzzed with curiosity and excitement. Again, she would’ve expected the death card. Instead, he’d left the card for strength and the fool.

      Had this tarot card been at the two other crime scenes and they’d missed it? What was he trying to tell them?

      She huffed out a breath. If her mother had allowed her to continue down the path her father wanted to carve for her, she’d probably understand this killer’s message.

      Christina pulled an evidence baggie from her pocket and dropped the card inside. She scanned her perch for anything else the killer may have left behind—threads, hair, more tarot cards.

      Nothing jumped out at her, not even those vague feelings that sometimes insinuated themselves into her psyche. Once she’d found the killer’s perch, she’d readied herself for a rush of feelings, feelings that often made her nauseous. This time she’d only experienced the taste of evil at the base of the tree.

      She brushed away the trickle of sweat at her hairline and lowered herself back to the ground. She swept her jacket up from the carpet of mulch and froze.

      A twig cracked again.

      She jerked her head in the direction of the sound. Her gaze darted between the branches and leaves of the dense foliage. She held her breath. The entire park held its breath, too, waiting for someone to make a move.

      “Agent Sandoval?”

      The interloper crashing through the trees behind her set the forest in motion. Birds took flight, scattering leaves in their haste. A squirrel scurried up the tree trunk, pausing to blink at her with its bright, challenging eyes. The trees took up their groaning and creaking once more.

      Christina turned, holding out her hands, palms up. “Careful there, cowboy. I’ve probably already done enough damage here.”

      “Ma’am?” The officer cocked his head, looking all of twelve.

      “Call me Christina.” She pinched the evidence baggie between two fingers and wiggled it in front of her. “Another tarot card. I think our killer scoped out the victim from this tree.”

      The cop’s mouth dropped open as he took a step back. “I’ll get the lieutenant and have him send the CSI guys out here. Did you find anything else?”

      “Nope, just the card.” And one helluva creepy feeling. Somehow she knew Lieutenant Fitch would dismiss any and all creepy feelings, so she’d keep them to herself. She always did.

      She followed the broad blue-clad back through the trees, back to the running trail. The young cop was already hopping from foot to foot in front of Lieutenant Fitch and gesturing with his hands.

      Fitch gazed over his officer’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes as Christina emerged into the clearing. Did he think she’d planted the evidence? As FBI, she’d worked with resentful detectives before, and Fitch seemed to be taking his place among them.

      If she hadn’t already been here due to the previous tarot card murder, Fitch probably wouldn’t have bothered contacting the FBI about this one.

      She plastered on her sweetest smile and waved the plastic bag. “How about that, Lieutenant? Looks like our boy stationed himself in one tall tree, staking out his next victim.”

      “Let me see that.” He snapped his fingers and held out his hand.

      She dropped the evidence baggie into his palm. “Another tarot card—the fool this time. Those cards mean something to him. He’s leaving us a message.”

      The cop swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck. “Maybe he’s a fortune-teller?”

      Fitch practically growled at him. “Go get some more yellow tape and tell CSI the crime scene’s just been extended.”

      Christina called after the hunched shoulders. “You might be on to something, Officer.”

      The lieutenant snapped his reddish brows together. “Don’t encourage him. He’s just a rookie on patrol. I can assure you, Agent Sandoval, you’re not dealing with some hick department.”

      “This is San Francisco. I never thought I was, Lieutenant.” She turned her head and covered her mouth with her hand. Inferiority complex much? “Can you tell me anything more about the murder?”

      “Without an autopsy, it’s what we suspected at first—severe head trauma followed by the slitting of the throat.”

      “Blunt object?”

      “Yep.”

      “He must be incapacitating them with the blow to the head, which then allows him to cut their throats.”

      “Victim lost a lot of blood.”

      “Just like Liz Fielding and the one up in Portland.”

      “At least he’s consistent.”

      “Except for this.” She flicked the bag he still held in his hand. “Unless we missed something at those other crime scenes.”

      “Is this going to send you back up to Portland, Agent Sandoval?”

      She tossed her ponytail over one shoulder. “Why? Trying to get rid of me, Lieutenant Fitch?”

      “Naw, we love it when the fibbies come around and trample all over our procedures and protocol.”

      Arching