The Boogeyman

James Arnold's knees jerked high as he coaxed speed from his tiring legs. He was running hard, running for his life. The ground underneath Arnold's feet was uneven and unfamiliar. Crossing a clearing, he slipped and fell on to one knee, caught for an agonizing moment in a yellow shaft of moonlight. Then he was on his feet again, running.   James a blinded beast he lunged out of the clearing and crashed into the protecting darkness of the thickets of southern loblolly pine and squat water oak. Panting loudly, he paused to rest, leaning his back against a pine. A battered turpentine cup nudged his ribs. A years ago someone had worked the forest on the island, catching his breath. He could hear the killers coming, beating their way through the brush. Their lights flashed like a Foxfire in the night.  Arnold began to run again. He couldn't stand and fight. He was unarmed.  He found himself crossing another narrow clearing where moonlight lay in a pale flood. He beached it with all the speed he could muster.   A pursuer emerged from the forest behind him and yelled. Without changing his stride Arnold ran on, his fist clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms. His knees drove up, came down carrying him from the clearing and into the forest again.   The man behind Arnold fired a rifle. An A-47 slug sang through the night, clipped a limb still trembling in Arnold's wake, whined off into the thick underbrush. The man called his companion. "Over here! He's over here!"   Arnold gritted his teeth. His breath was beginning to hiss through his nose like steam. His chest hurt. Years ago he had run at guard for the university of Brighton hurricane. Fastest lineman in the conference, the newspapers had said. He was still in shape, but he knew he couldn't keep up this pace. He had pushed himself close to his limit.   The yelling man was no longer alone. He and others burst through the brush like oxen, taking no interest in stealth. They didn't have to worry about Arnold. He was outnumbered twelve to one.   Underbrush tore Arnold's clothing, slowing him down. The forest was growing thicker. Trees crowded close together, reducing the light from the Moon and making the going tough. Arnold could see no more than an arm's length ahead of him now and he had lost all sense of direction.   Sharp briars laced the underbrush like barbed wire, Arnold struck a tree with his shoulder, knocking himself off balance. He fell into a bed of blackberry bushes. Face scratched and bleeding, he rose and plunged on, an arm lifted to protect his eyes from low-hanging limbs.   The instinct for survival beat strongly in James Arnold. Some men said he didn't care if he lived or died, but they were wrong. They were damned wrong.   He could feel old man death breathing hotly on his neck at that moment, and Arnold wasn't ready for him. Not by long sight.   He didn't want to cash in his ticket on Wick Bush's goddamned island, to get deep-sixed out in the Atlantic with chains wrapped around him to make sure the corpse went straight down and didn't pop up to cause embarrassment to important people.   Anthony Miles had warned him. The sage old Brighton cop had told Arnold the drug organization was not to be underestimated. "This outfit is bad news. They're efficient and tough, or the Widowmaker wouldn't be using them to smuggle cocaine and heroin into the country. They were willing to kill a federal agent to protect their operation. They'd kill you even quicker."   "Just tell me if the operation is vital to the Underworld. If I threw a wrench into the works, would it cause the men who rule the Assembly to lose some sleep?"   "Son, you've got them losing sleep already. The word is that they've upped the price on your head to $20million."   "It's nice to know I'm appreciated," Arnold had said, wryly. "Answer the question, Anthony."   The organization is now the Underworld's chief source of supply in the south. Because of it, coke is flowing into London and other cities along north Atlantic coast like beer at Marine reunion."   "And the feds haven't got a lead?"   "They've got a dead agent and a big problem. That's what the feds have."   "Then I'll give them a helping hand. Only don't tell them, will you? They probably wouldn't appreciate my interest. They'd probably try to arrest me."   "Not probably arrest you, son. For damned sure they would."