Jaws by Peter Benchley

  “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 closed 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 limply down one side, knees, calves, and feet from the other.

  In the few seconds while the fish was clear 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 into 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 suppressed the impulse and moved on to his car. 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 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 th
ink 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 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 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 car 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.

  Yesterday another human life was cut short by the Great White Shark. Matt Hooper, the young oceanographer from Woods Hole, was killed as he tried to kill the beast single-handedly.

  People may debate the wisdom of Mr. Hooper’s daring attempt. But call it brave or foolhardy, there can be no debate about the motive that sent him on his fatal mission. He was trying to help Amity, spending his own time and money in an effort to restore peace to this despairing community.

  He was a friend, and he gave his life so that we, his friends, might live.

  … AND A VOTE OF THANKS

  Ever since the marauding shark first came to Amity, one man has spent his every waking minute trying to protect his fellow citizens. That man is Police Chief Martin Brody.

  After the first attack, Chief Brody wanted to inform the public of the danger and close the beaches. But a chorus of less prudent voices, including that of the editor of this newspaper, told him he was wrong. Play down the risk, we said, and it will disappear. It was we who were wrong.

  Some in Amity were slow to learn the lesson. When, after repeated attacks, Chief Brody insisted on keeping the beaches closed, he was vilified and threatened. A few of his most vocal critics were men motivated not by public-spiritedness but personal greed. Chief Brody persisted, and, once again, he was proven right.

  Now Chief Brody is risking his life on the same expedition that took the life of Matt Hooper. We must all offer our prayers for his safe return … and our thanks for his extraordinary fortitude and integrity.

  Brody said aloud, “Thank you, Harry.”

  Around midnight, the wind began to blow hard from the northeast, whistling through the screens and soon bringing a driving rain that splashed on the bedroom floor. Brody got out of bed and shut the window. He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind refused to rest. He got up again, put on his bathrobe, went downstairs to the living room, and turned on the television. He switched channels until he found a movie—Weekend at the Waldorf, with Ginger Rogers. Then he sat down in a chair and promptly slipped into a fitful doze.

  He awoke at five, to the whine of the television test pattern, turned off the set, and listened for the wind. It had moderated and seemed to be coming from a different quarter, but it still carried rain. He debated calling Quint, but thought, no, no use: we’ll be going even if this blows up into a gale. He went upstairs and quietly dressed. Before he left the bedroom, he looked at Ellen, who had a frown on her sleeping face. “I do love you, you know,” he whispered, and he kissed her brow. He started down the stairs and then, impulsively, went and looked in the boys’ bedrooms. They were all asleep.

  14

  When he drove up to the dock, Quint was waiting for him—a tall, impassive figure whose yellow oilskins shone under the dark sky. He was sharpening a harpoon dart on a Carborundum stone.

  “I almost called you,” Brody said as he pulled on his slicker. “What does this weather mean?”

  “Nothing,” said Quint. “It’ll let up after a while. Or even if it doesn’t, it don’t matter. He’ll be there.”

  Brody looked up at the scudding clouds. “Gloomy enough.”

  “Fitting,” said Quint, and he hopped aboard the boat. “Is it just us?”

  “Just us. You expecting somebody else?”

  “No. But I thought you liked an extra pair of hands.”

  “You know this fish as well as any man, and more hands won’t make no difference now. Besides, it’s nobody else’s business.”

  Brody stepped from the dock onto the transom, and was about to jump down to the deck when he noticed a canvas tarpaulin covering something in a corner. “What’s that?” he said, pointing.

  “Sheep.” Quint turned the ignition key. The engine coughed once, caught, and began to chug evenly.

  “What for?” Brody stepped down onto the deck. “You going to sacrifice it?”

  Quint barked a brief, grim laugh. “Might at that,” he said. “No, it’s bait. Give him a little breakfast before we have at him. Undo my stern line.” He walked forward and cast off the bow and spring lines.

  As Brody reached for the stern line, he heard a car engine. A pair of headlights sped along the road, and there was a squeal of rubber as the car stopped at the end of the pier. A man jumped out of the car and ran toward the Orca. It was the Times reporter, Bill Whitman.

  “I almost missed you,” he said, panting.

  “What do you want?” said Brody.

  “I want to come along. Or, rather, I’ve been ordered to come along.”

  “Tough shit,” said Quint. “I don’t know who you are, but nobody’s coming along. Brody, cast off the stern line.”

  “Why not?” said Whitman. “I won’t get in the way. Maybe I can help. Look, man, this is news. If you’re going to catch that fish, I want to be there.”

  “Fuck yourself,” said Quint.

  “I’ll charter a boat and follow you.” r />
  Quint laughed. “Go ahead. See if you can find someone foolish enough to take you out. Then try to find us. It’s a big ocean. Throw the line, Brody!”

  Brody tossed the stern line onto the dock. Quint pushed the throttle forward, and the boat eased out of the slip. Brody looked back and saw Whitman walking down the pier toward his car.

  The water off Montauk was rough, for the wind—from the southeast now—was at odds with the tide. The boat lurched through the waves, its bow pounding down and casting a mantle of spray. The dead sheep bounced in the stern.

  When they reached the open sea, heading southwest, their motion was eased. The rain had slacked to a drizzle, and with each moment there were fewer whitecaps tumbling from the top of waves.

  They had been around the point only fifteen minutes when Quint pulled back on the throttle and slowed the engine.

  Brody looked toward shore. In the growing light he could see the water tower clearly—a black point rising from the gray strip of land. The lighthouse beacon still shone. “We’re not out as far as we usually go,” he said.

  “No.”

  “We can’t be more than a couple of miles offshore.”

  “Just about.”

  “So why are you stopping?”

  “I got a feeling.” Quint pointed to the left, to a cluster of lights farther down the shore. “That’s Amity there.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t think he’ll be so far out today. I think he’ll be somewhere between here and Amity.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, it’s a feeling. There’s not always a why to these things.”

  “Two days in a row we found him farther out.”

  “Or he found us.”

  “I don’t get it, Quint. For a man who says there’s no such thing as a smart fish, you’re making this one out to be a genius.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Brody bristled at Quint’s sly, enigmatic tone. “What kind of game are you playing?”

  “No game. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong.”

  “And we try somewhere else tomorrow.” Brody half hoped Quint would be wrong, that there would be a day’s reprieve.