The Narrows by Michael Connelly

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 RV’s 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