After a moment he smiled at the memory of seeing his name on the sign held by the woman who had met Rachel at the airport. An inside joke between agents. Backus recognized the greeter. Agent Cherie Dei. Rachel had mentored her just as he had mentored Rachel. That meant some of his special insights had been passed on through Rachel to this new generation. He liked that. He wondered what Cherie Dei's reaction would have been if he had stepped up to her and her stupid sign at the bottom of the escalator and said, "Thanks for meeting me."

He looked out through the car's windows at the flat, barren plain of the desert floor. He believed it was truly beautiful, made even more so by the things he had planted in the sand and rock out there.

He thought about that and soon the pressure in his chest eased and he felt wonderful again. He checked the rearview for trailers and saw nothing that was suspicious. He checked himself then and admired the surgeon's work once more. He smiled at himself.

As they got close to the tents Rachel Walling began to smell the scene. The unmistakable odor of decaying flesh was carried on the wind as it worked through the encampment, billowed the tents and moved out again. She switched her breathing to her mouth, haunted by knowledge she wished she didn't have, that the sensation of smell occurred when tiny particles rstruck sensory receptors in the nasal passages. It meant if you smelled decaying flesh that was because you were breathing decaying flesh.

There were three small square tents in the approach to the site. These were not the kind for camping. They were field command tents with straight sides to eight feet. Behind these three was a larger rectangular tent. Rachel noticed that all of the tents had open vent flaps on top. She knew that there were body excavations taking place in each. The vents were to let some of the heat and stink escape.

Overlapping everything was the noise. There were at least two gasoline-powered generators providing electricity to the scene. There were also two full-size RVs parked to the left of the tents and their rooftop air handlers were rumbling.

"Let's go in here first," Cherie Dei said, pointing to one of the RVs. "Randal is usually in here."

The RV looked like any supercamper Rachel had seen on the freeway. This one was called the " Open Road " and it had an Arizona plate on the back. Dei knocked on the door and then pulled it open without waiting for a response. They stepped up and in. The vehicle wasn't set up on the inside for camping on the open road. Partitions and the comforts of home had been removed. It was one long room set up with four folding tables and many chairs. Along the rear wall was a counter with all the usual office machinery-computer, fax, copier and coffeemaker. Two of the tables were covered with paperwork. On the third, incongruous to the purpose and setting, was a large bowl of fruit. The lunch table, Rachel guessed. Even at a mass burial site you have to have lunch. At the fourth table was a man on a cell phone, an open laptop computer in front of him.

"Have a seat," Dei said. "I'll introduce you as soon as he is off."

Rachel sat at the lunch table and took a precautionary sniff of the air. The RVs air handler was on recycle. The odor from the excavation wasn't noticeable. No wonder the man in charge stayed in here. She looked at the bowl of fruit and thought about taking a handful of grapes, just to keep her energy up, but decided not to.

"You want some fruit, go ahead," Dei said.

"No, thanks, I'm fine." "Suit yourself."

Dei reached over and picked off some grapes and Rachel felt foolish because she had painted herself into a corner with the fruit. The man on the cell, who she assumed was Agent Alpert, was talking too low to be heard-probably by the person he was talking to as well. Rachel noticed that the long wall along the left side of the RV was covered with photographs of the excavations. She looked away. She didn't want to study the photographs until after she had been in the tents. She turned and looked out the window next to the table. This RV had the premiere view of the desert. She could see down into the basin and the entire ridgeline. She wondered for a moment if the view meant anything. If Backus had chosen the spot because of the view and if so, what was the significance of it.

When Dei turned her back Rachel grabbed some grapes and put three in her mouth at once. At the same moment, the man snapped his phone closed and got up from his table and approached her with his hand out.

"Randal Alpert, special agent in charge. We're glad you are here."

Rachel shook his hand but had to wait to get the grapes down before speaking.

"Nice to meet you. Not such nice circumstances."

"Yeah, but look at that view. Sure beats the brick wall I've got back in Quantico. And at least we're out here the end of April and not August. That would have been a killer."

He was the new Bob Backus. Running the shop at Quantico, coming out on the big ones and of course this was a big one. Rachel decided she didn't like him and that Cherie Dei was right about him being a morph.

Rachel had always found that agents in Behavioral were of two kinds. The first type she called "morphs." These agents were much like the men and women they hunted. Able to keep it all from getting to them. They could move on like a serial killer from case to case without being dragged down by all the horror and guilt and knowledge of the true nature of evil. Rachel called them morphs because these agents could take that burden and somehow morph it into something else. The site of a multiple body excavation became a beautiful view better than anything at Quantico.

The second type Rachel called "empaths" because they took all the horror in and kept it in. It became the campfire they warmed themselves by. They used it to connect and motivate, to get the job done. To Rachel, these were the better agents because they would go to the limit and beyond to catch the bad guy and solve the case.

It was certainly healthier to be a morph. To be able to move on without any baggage. The halls of Behavioral were haunted by the ghosts of the empaths, the agents who couldn't go the distance, for whom the burden became too much. Agents like Janet Newcomb, who put her gun in her mouth, and Jon Fenton, who drove into a bridge abutment, and Terry McCaleb, who literally gave his heart to the job. Rachel remembered them all and above all she remembered Bob Backus, the ultimate morph, the agent who was both hunter and prey.

"That was Brass Doran on the phone," Alpert said. "She said to say hello." "She's back at Quantico?"

"Yes, she's agoraphobic about that place. Never wants to leave. She's heading up things on that end for us. Now, Agent Walling, I know you know the score. We've got a delicate situation here. We're glad you are here but you are here strictly as an observer and possibly a witness."

She didn't like him being so formal with her. It was a way of keeping her outside the circle.

"A witness?" she asked.

"You might be able to give us some ideas. You knew this guy. Most of us were on the street chasing bank robbers when the whole thing with Backus went down. I came into the unit right after your thing went down. After OPR went through the place. Cherie here is one of the few still around from then."

"My thing?"

"You know what I mean. You and Backus going at St."

"Can I go look at the excavation now? I'd like to see what you've got."

"Well, Cherie will take you out in a second. We don't have a lot to look at but today's carcass."

Spoken like a true morph, Rachel thought. She glanced at Dei and their eyes met in confirmation.

"But there is something I want to talk about first."