Mama Roote had been all too eager to let the state take charge of her troubled son. When she hadn't been dominating him, she'd treated him as an inconvenience. For her, the mound of rotting animal corpses spelled freedom.
At thirteen Elizu started the cycle of counselling and foster homes that would continue until his eighteenth birthday. Of course, the killing never stopped. But he was more careful than he'd been as a kid.
He would adopt dogs from animal shelters in nearby communities and take them for a final trip deep into the woods. Their pitiful yelping cries helped to slake his thirst for blood during those long, awkward teenage years.
To celebrate his high-school graduation, Elizu joined the Army and killed his first prostitute all in the same day. After that, the next few years were a blur.
There were more women, of course. He'd never stopped the killing. He had no other hobbies, no other interests to fill the void of his life.
Roote knew he fit the famous FBI profile of a serial killer. Other men might not like to be shoehorned into a narrow category like that. But Elizu Roote didn't have any friends, either from the Army or from his youth. He shied away from group activity, he was not exactly a joiner. For him, to be a serial killer was to be part of something. A member of a select group of like-minded individuals.
In a life that was gutted of everything meaningful, Elizu Roote needed to define his existence. He was a serial killer. For if he wasn't that, he was nothing.
At least that was what he always thought. But now, thanks to the United States Army, he was much more.
AS ELIZU ROOTE STROLLED with impunity through yet another empty Fort Joy street, a soldier appeared from the shadows beside an officer's house.
Before Roote even realized there was a threat, he'd targeted the soldier and his hand flew up. The thump of a solitary burst of electricity exploded across the night air.
His gun barrel snatched the surge of energy like a lightning rod and the soldier dropped.
Roote walked past the twitching body. He recognized the dead man. But although the face he looked upon was familiar, no emotion accompanied the recognition.
Just a body. Another corpse to throw on the growing pile. Elizu Roote was a god stepping on ants.
He had had the same reaction upon seeing the faces of the other men he had killed this night. Not one of his fellow Fort Joy soldiers had even noticed when he'd disappeared months before. While the surgeons and scientists were conducting their sick alterations on him, no one thought to look for him. Not one of them came to help while he was being held captive in his rubberized tomb.
He had been nothing to them. They were nothing to him.
The chorus of voices in Roote's head sang with glee as he fired three rapid shots at a trio of skulking soldiers. Only the last of them managed to squeeze off a few rounds before the intricate tracking system connected to Roote's finger pads blew him away.
Bullets ripped through the air around him. But none kissed the flesh of the godlike Elizu Roote. He walked through the hail of lead unharmed, stepping beyond the latest smoking bodies. Moving toward his ultimate target the headquarters of General Delbert Chesterfield.
SMITH'S RAPID ANALYSIS of Roote's internal systems had proved correct so far. Shadowing Roote across the grounds of Fort Joy, Smith had no doubt that he had survived thus far only because he hadn't attempted to shoot the private. Therein lay the CURE director's dilemma.
He had ventured out after Roote in order to stop the deranged killing machine. However, the moment he attempted to do so using conventional means, Roote's systems would target him as a threat and destroy him.
Helpless to act, Smith could only watch as more soldiers died at the hands of this frightening horrid manufactured aberration.
Smith leaned into a barracks wall, feeling the rough texture of the wood beneath his hands. The uneven lines of the clapboard building pressed against his back. Cautiously he peered out across the courtyard.
Roote was only a few dozen yards away. The soldier was meeting less and less resistance the closer he got to Chesterfield's headquarters.
Angled floodlights positioned in pairs along the exteriors of all buildings facing the courtyard spread an even coat of brilliant white on the dusty grounds.
Though Roote appeared to be careful to stay to one side of the yard so as to avoid a full-out assault at the center of the parade grounds, it was more an instinctive reaction than a conscious one. He didn't seem outwardly concerned.
And rightly so. As far as Smith could tell, the private had nothing to fear from the troops he met. Focusing on the deranged soldier as he continued on his remorseless trek toward the base headquarters, Smith hadn't been paying attention to his immediate surroundings. He was startled to hear a foot suddenly scuff the dirt beside him.
Whipping away from Roote, Smith spun toward the noise. He came face to face with a group of four young soldiers. They were sliding up to the CURE director. Their boyish features registered clear apprehension.
"Out sightseeing, sir?" one of them asked, his voice a husky whisper.
"What the devil is going on here?" Smith demanded with quiet anger. He waved a hand in Roote's direction. "These men appear undisciplined. The only possible defense against Roote is a full-blown assault from every direction at once. All I have seen are sporadic attacks."
The soldier's eyes were dead. "That's what happens when command structure breaks down," he said bitterly.
Fury sparked the gray flint of Smith's eyes beyond his rimless glasses. "I am not interested in your problems, soldier," he snapped, his voice a sharp whisper. "That man is a threat that must be neutralized. I believe he is going after General Chesterfield."
"He ain't going to find him there," a soldier at the rear mocked, youthful voice fraught with tension.
"Why? Where is he?"
"Old Ironbutt left."
"Left?" Smith frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He's gone. Took off. Chopper airlifted his fat ass out of here twenty minutes ago."
Shocked, Smith glanced back at the headquarters. Roote was nearly there. But if what these men were saying was true, he would not find his quarry inside.
A decision was instantly made.
The CURE director turned back to the soldiers, addressing the man who seemed to have taken over as their leader.
"Gather every last man you can find," Smith ordered. "Arm victims from his previous assaults if they can walk. Medical personnel, civilian staff. Everyone." He pointed across the grounds to Roote. "That man cannot be allowed to leave this base. Only a full assault from all sides can bring him down. Even he will not be able to withstand such a barrage."
The soldiers seemed heartened to have someone assume command so authoritatively. Their nervousness fled, replaced by a sudden eagerness for action.
"Yes, sir," the first private said, nodding sharply.
Smith checked his watch. "It is 9:39. At 9:50 you will commence your assault. Expect him to head for the main gate by then. Bear that in mind as you plan your offensive."
The CURE director began to slip back down the rear of the building, away from Roote. The men stopped him.
"What about you?" a soldier asked.
"I have a plan that could render your assault unnecessary," Smith informed him. "If it succeeds, you will know it, for you will not encounter Roote."
"And if it fails?"
Smith didn't miss a beat. "If it fails, I will be dead," he said with grim detachment.
Without another word, he slipped off into the night.
THE ELECTRIFIED FENCE had been constructed around a vast area of New Mexico desert. There was much vacant ground to cover on their race from the rear gate.