Jaws (33 page)

The fish came closer, silent as a shadow, and Hooper drew back. The head was only a few feet from the cage when the fish turned and began to pass before Hooper's eyes --casually, as if in proud display of its incalculable mass and power. The snout passed first, then the jaw, slack and smiling, armed with row upon row of serrate triangles. And then the black, fathomless eye, seemingly riveted upon him. The gills rippled --bloodless wounds in the steely skin.

Tentatively, Hooper stuck a hand through the bars and touched the flank. It felt cold and hard, not clammy but smooth as vinyl. He let his fingertips caress the flesh --past the pectoral fins, the pelvic fin, the thick, firm genital claspers --until finally (the

fish seemed to have no end) they were slapped away by the sweeping tail. The fish continued to move away from the cage. Hooper heard faint popping file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (120 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt noises, and he saw three straight spirals of angry bubbles speed from the surface, then slow and stop, well above the fish. Bullets. Not yet, he told himself. One more pass for pictures. The fish began to turn, banking, the rubbery pectoral fins changing pitch.

"What the hell is he doing down there?" said Brody. "Why didn't he jab him with the gun?"

Quint didn't answer. He stood on the transom, harpoon clutched in his fist, peering into the water. "Come up, fish," he said. "Come to Quint."

"Do you see it?" said Brody. "What's it doing?"

"Nothing. Not yet, anyway."

The fish had moved off to the limit of Hooper's vision --a spectral silver-gray blur tracing a slow circle. Hooper raised his camera and pressed the trigger. He knew the film would be worthless unless the fish moved in once more, but he wanted to catch the beast as it emerged from the darkness.

Through the viewfinder he saw the fish turn toward him. It moved fast, tail thrusting vigorously, mouth opening and closing as if gasping for breath. Hooper raised his right hand to change the focus. Remember to change it again, he told himself, when it turns.

But the fish did not turn. A shiver traveled the length of its body as it closed on

the cage. It struck the cage head on, the snout ramming between two bars and spreading them. The snout hit Hooper in the chest and knocked him backward. The camera flew from his hands, and the mouthpiece shot from his mouth. The fish turned on its side, and the pounding tail forced the great body farther into the cage. Hooper groped for his mouthpiece but couldn't find it. His chest was convulsed with the need for air.

"It's attacking!" screamed Brody. He grabbed one of the tether ropes and pulled, desperately trying to raise the cage.

"God damn your fucking soul!" Quint shouted.

"Throw it! Throw it!"

"I can't throw it! I gotta get him on the surface! Come up, you devil! You prick!"

The fish slid backward out of the cage and turned sharply to the right in a tight circle. Hooper reached behind his head, found the regulator tube, and followed it with his

hand until he located the mouthpiece. He put it in his mouth and, forgetting to exhale first, sucked for air. He got water, and he gagged and choked until at last the mouthpiece

cleared and he drew an agonized breath. It was then that he saw the wide gap in the bars and saw the giant head lunging through it. He raised his hands above his head, grasping at

the escape hatch.

The fish rammed through the space between the bars, spreading them still farther with each thrust of its tail. Hooper, flattened against the back of the cage, saw the mouth

reaching, straining for him. He remembered the power head, and he tried to lower his right arm and grab it. The fish thrust again, and Hooper saw with the terror of doom that the mouth was going to reach him.

The jaws dosed around his torso. Hooper felt a terrible pressure, as if his guts were being compacted. He jabbed his fist into the black eye. The fish bit down, and the last thing Hooper saw before he died was the eye gazing at him through a cloud of his own blood.

"He's got him!" cried Brody. "Do something!"

"The man is dead," Quint said.

"How do you know? We may be able to save him."

"He is dead."

Holding Hooper in its mouth, the fish backed out of the cage. It sank a few feet, chewing, swallowing the viscera that were squeezed into its gullet. Then it shuddered and thrust forward with its tail, driving itself and prey upward in the water.

"He's coming up!" said Brody.

"Grab the rifle!" Quint cocked his hand for the throw. The fish broke water fifteen feet from the boat, surging upward in a shower of spray. Hooper's body protruded from each side of the mouth, head and arms hanging file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (121 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt limply down one side, knees, calves, and feet from the other. In the few seconds while the fish was dear of the water, Brody thought he saw Hooper's glazed, dead eyes staring open through his face mask. As if in contempt and triumph, the fish hung suspended for an instant, challenging mortal vengeance. Simultaneously, Brody reached for the rifle and Quint cast the harpoon. The target

was huge, a field of white belly, and the distance was not too great for a successful throw

above water. But as Quint threw, the fish began to slide down in the water, and the iron went high.

For another instant, the fish remained on the surface, its head out of water, Hooper hanging from its mouth.

"Shoot!" Quint yelled. "For Christ sake, shoot!" Brody shot without aiming. The first two shots hit the water in front of the fish.

The third, to Brody's horror, struck Hooper in the neck.

"Here, give me the goddam thing!" said Quint, grabbing the rifle from Brody. In a single, quick motion he raised the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off two shots. But the fish, with a last, vacant gaze, had already begun to slip beneath the surface. The bullets plopped harmlessly into the swirl where the head had been. The fish might never have been there. There was no noise, save the whisper of a breeze. From the surface the cage seemed undamaged. The water was calm. The only difference was that Hooper was gone.

"What do we do now?" said Brody. "What in the name of God can we do now?

There's nothing left. We might as well go back."

"We'll go back," said Quint. "For now."

"For now? What do you mean? There's nothing we can do. The fish is too much for us. It's not real, not natural."

"Are you beaten, man?"

"I'm beaten. All we can do is wait until God or nature or whatever the hell is doing this to us decides we've had enough. It's out of man's hands."

"Not mine," said Quint. "I am going to kill that thing."

"I'm not sure I can get any more money after what happened today."

"Keep your money. This is no longer a matter of money."

"What do you mean?" Brody looked at Quint, who was standing at the stern, looking at the spot where the fish's head had been, as if he expected it to reappear at any

moment clutching the shredded corpse in its mouth. He searched the sea, craving another confrontation.

Quint said to Brody, "I am going to kill that fish. Come if you want. Stay home if

you want. But I am going to kill that fish."

As Quint spoke, Brody looked into his eyes. They seemed as dark and bottomless as the eye of the fish.

"I'll come," said Brody. "I don't guess I have any choice."

"No," said Quint. "We have no choice." He took his knife from its sheath and handed it to Brody. "Here. Cut that cage loose and let's get out of here." When the boat was tied up at the dock, Brody walked toward his car. At the end of the dock there was a phone booth, and he stopped beside it, prompted by his earlier resolve to call Daisy Wicker. But he sup-pressed the impulse and moved on to his ear. What's the point? he thought. If there was anything, it's over now. Still, as he drove toward Amity, Brody wondered what Ellen's reaction had been when the Coast Guard had called her with the news of Hooper's death. Quint had radioed the Coast Guard before they started in, and Brody had asked the duty officer to phone Ellen and tell her that he, at least, was all right.

By the time Brody arrived home, Ellen had long since finished crying. She had wept mechanically, angrily, grieving not so much for Hooper as in hopelessness and bitterness at yet another death. She had been sadder at the disintegration of Larry Vaughan than she was now, for Vaughan had been a dear and close friend. Hooper had been a "lover" in only the most shallow sense of the word. She had not loved him. She file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (122 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt had used him, and though she was grateful for what he had given her, she felt no obligation to him. She was sorry he was dead, of course, just as she would have been sorry to hear that his brother, David, had died. In her mind they were both now relics of her distant past.

She heard Brody's car pull into the driveway, and she opened the back door. Lord, he looks whipped, she thought as she watched him walk toward the house. His eyes were red and sunken, and he seemed slightly hunched as he walked. She kissed him at the door and said, "You look like you could use a drink."

"That I could." He went into the living room and flopped into a chair.

"What would you like?"

"Anything. Just so long as it's strong."

She went into the kitchen, filled a glass with equal portions of vodka and orange juice, and brought it to him. She sat on the arm of his chair and ran her hand over his head. She smiled and said, "There's your bald spot. It's been so long since I touched your

bald spot that I'd forgotten it was there."

"I'm surprised there's any hair left at all. Christ, I'll never be as old as I feel

today."

"I'll bet. Well, it's over now."

"I wish it was," said Brody. "I truly do wish it was."

"What do you mean?' It is over, isn't it? There's nothing more you can do."

"We're going out tomorrow. Six o'clock."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

"Why?" Ellen was stunned. "What do you think you can do?"

"Catch the fish. And kill it."

"Do you believe that?"

"I'm not sure. But Quint believes it. God, how he believes it."

"Then let him go. Let him get killed."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's my job."

"It is not your job!" She was furious, and scared, and tears began to well behind her eyes.

Brody thought for a moment and said, "No, you're right."

"Then why?"

"I don't think I can tell you. I don't think I know."

"Are you trying to prove something?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I didn't feel this way before. After Hooper was killed, I was ready to give it up."

"What changed your mind?"

"Quint, I guess."

"You mean you're letting him tell you what to do?"

"No. He didn't tell me anything. It's a feeling. I can't explain it. But giving up isn't

an answer. It doesn't put an end to anything."

"Why is an end so important?"

"Different reasons, I think. Quint feels that if he doesn't kill the fish, everything he

believes in is wrong."

"And you?"

Brody tried to smile. "Me, I guess I'm just a screwed-up cop."

"Don't joke with me!" Ellen cried, and tears spilled out of her eyes. "What about me and the children? Do you want to get killed?"

"No, God no. It's just..."

"You think it's all your fault. You think you're responsible."

"Responsible for what?"

"For that little boy and the old man. You think killing the shark will make everything all right again. You want revenge."

Brody sighed. "Maybe I do. I don't know. I feel... I believe that the only way file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (123 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt this

town can be alive again is if we kill that thing."

"And you're willing to get killed trying to --"

"Don't be stupid! I'm not willing to get killed. I'm not even willing --if that's the

word you want to use --to go out in that goddam boat. You think I like it out there? I'm so scared every minute I'm out there I want to puke."

"Then why go?" She was pleading with him, begging. "Can't you ever think of anybody but yourself?"

Brody was shocked at the suggestion of selfishness. It had never occurred to him that he was being selfish, indulging a personal need for expiation. "I love you," he said.

"You know that... no matter what."

"Sure you do," she said bitterly. "Oh, sure you do." They ate dinner in silence. When they were finished, Ellen picked up the dishes, washed them, and went upstairs. Brody walked around the living room, turning out lights. Just as he reached for the switch to turn off the hall light, he heard a tap on the front door.

He opened it and saw Meadows.

"Hey, Harry," he said. "Come on in."

"No," said Meadows. "It's too late. I just wanted to drop this by." He handed Brody a manila envelope.

"What is it?"

"Open it and see. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Meadows turned and walked down the path to the curb, where his ear was parked, lights on and motor running. Brody shut the door and opened the envelope. Inside was a proof of the editorial page of the next day's Leader. The first two editorials had been circled in red grease pencil. Brody read:

A NOTE OF SORROW . . .

In the past three weeks, Amity has suffered through one horrible tragedy after another. Its citizens, and its friends, have been struck down by a savage menace that no one can deter, no one can explain.