“Lucky? For years each of us was plagued by parasites that leeched onto our bright souls . . . but we purged them. Then we were manipulated and used by a spirit predator. . . but we defeated it. There’s nothing ‘lucky’ about what we suffered.”

“Soul parasites and spirit predators,” said the profiler, with calculated con­descension. “Sounds like some nasty business.”

“It was,” said Dillon, becoming annoyed. “And why are you here any­way? I haven’t quite figured out the purpose it serves. It’s not like your report is going to make any difference. Those notes of yours will never see the light of day—you know that, don’t you? They’ll be locked up so tight there won’t be anyone with high enough security clearance to read them.”

“Never mind that. Let’s get back to the other two who died. The other two ‘shards,’ as you called them.”

Dillon took a deep breath, attempting to regain his composure. But it was more than that. The profiler sensed . . . something else. Something that had been there since he had arrived in the room, just on the threshold of perception. Now as he concentrated on it, he was certain it was there—a slow, rhythmic pulse that he could feel resonating through his bones and aching joints. Im­possible, the profiler thought, but the pulse seemed to emanate from across the table.

Am I feeling Dillon’s heartbeat?

Dillon twitched his nose, and looked down at his shackled hands. “I have an itch on my nose. Could you scratch it for me?”

“There’s a standing order than no one is to touch you under any circum­stances. "

“I see. Are they afraid you’ll pick up whatever disease I’ve got?”

“Tell me about the others who died.”

Dillon sighed, and tried to rub his nose unsuccessfully on his shoulder, then gave up. “Michael and Tory,” Dillon said. “They were the other two. They died in the rubble of Hoover Dam . . . in the Backwash.”