“I’ll be fucked!” said Quint.
“It was like he knew what you were trying to do,” said Brody, “like he knew there was a trap set for him.”
“Goddammit! I never have seen a fish do that before.”
“He knew if he knocked you down he could get to the porpoise.”
“Shit, he was just aiming for the porpoise, and he missed.”
Hooper said, “Aiming from the opposite side of the boat?”
“Well, it don’t make no never-mind,” said Quint. “Whatever he did, it worked.”
“How do you think he got off the hook?” said Brody. “He didn’t pull the cleat out.”
Quint walked over to the starboard gunwale and began to pull in the rope. “He either bit right through the chain, or else … uh-huh, that’s what I figured.” He leaned over the gunwale and grabbed the chain. He pulled it aboard. It was intact, the clip still attached to the eye of the hook. But the hook itself had been destroyed. The steel shaft no longer curled. It was nearly straight, marked by two small bumps where once it had been tempered into a curve.
“Jesus Christ!” said Brody. “He did that with his mouth?”
“Bent it out nice as you please,” said Quint. “Probably didn’t slow him down for more than a second or two.”
Brody felt light-headed. His fingertips tingled. He sat down in the chair and drew several deep breaths, trying to stifle the fear that was mounting inside him.
“Where do you suppose he’s gone?” said Hooper, standing at the stern and looking at the water.
“He’s around here somewhere,” said Quint. “I imagine he’ll be back. That porpoise wasn’t any more to him than an anchovy is to a bluefish. He’ll be looking for more food.” He reassembled the harpoon, recoiled the rope, and set them on the transom. “We’re just gonna have to wait. And keep chumming. I’ll tie up some more squid and hang ’em overboard.”
Brody watched Quint as he wrapped twine around each squid and dropped it overboard, attached to the boat at cleats, rod-holders, and almost anything else around which he could tie a knot. When a dozen squid had been placed at various points and various depths around the boat, Quint climbed to the flying bridge and sat down.
Hoping to be contradicted, Brody said, “That sure does seem to be a smart fish.”
“Smart or not, I wouldn’t know,” said Quint. “But he’s doing things I’ve never seen a fish do before.” He paused, then said—as much to himself as to Brody—“but I’m gonna get that fucker. That’s one thing for sure.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I know it, that’s all. Now leave me be.”
It was a command, not a request, and though Brody wanted to talk—about anything, even the fish itself, as long as he could steer his mind away from the image of the beast lurking in the water below him—he said nothing more. He looked at his watch: 11:05.
They waited, expecting at any moment to see the fin rise off the stern and cut back and forth through the water. Hooper ladled chum, which sounded to Brody, every time it hit the water, like diarrhea.
At eleven-thirty, Brody was startled by a sharp, resonant snap. Quint leaped down the ladder, across the deck, and onto the transom. He picked up the harpoon and held it at his shoulder, scanning the water around the stern.
“What the hell was that?” said Brody.
“He’s back.”
“How do you know? What was that noise?”
“Twine snapping. He took one of the squid.”
“Why would it snap? Why wouldn’t he chew right through it?”
“He probably never bit down on it. He sucked it in, and the twine came tight between his teeth when he closed his mouth. He went like this, I imagine”—Quint jerked his head to the side—“and the line parted.”
“How could we hear it snap if it snapped under water?”
“It didn’t snap under water, for Christ sake! It snapped right there.” Quint pointed to a few inches of limp twine hanging from a cleat amidships.
“Oh,” said Brody. As he looked at the remnant, he saw another piece of twine—a few feet farther up the gunwale—go limp. “There’s another one,” he said. He stood and walked to the gunwale and pulled in the line. “He must be right underneath us.”
Quint said, “Anybody care to go swimming?”
“Let’s put the cage overboard,” said Hooper.
“You’re kidding,” said Brody.
“No, I’m not. It might bring him out.”
“With you in it?”
“Not at first. Let’s see what he does. What do you say, Quint?”
“Might as well,” said Quint. “Can’t hurt just to put it in the water, and you paid for it.” He put down the harpoon, and he and Hooper walked to the cage.
They tipped the cage onto its side, and Hooper opened the top hatch and crawled through it. He removed the scuba tank, regulator, face mask, and neoprene wet suit, and set them on the deck. They tipped the cage upright again and slid it across the deck to the starboard gunwale. “You got a couple of lines?” said Hooper. “I want to make it fast to the boat.” Quint went below and returned with two coils of rope. They tied one to an after cleat, one to a cleat amidships, then secured the ends to the bars on top of the cage. “Okay,” said Hooper. “Let’s put her over.” They lifted the cage, tipped it backward, and pushed it overboard. It sank until the ropes stopped it, a few feet beneath the surface. There it rested, rising and falling slowly in the swells. The three men stood at the gunwale, looking into the water.
“What makes you think this’ll bring him up?” said Brody.
“I didn’t say ‘up,’ ” said Hooper. “I said ‘out.’ I think he’ll come out and have a look at it, to see whether he wants to eat it.”
“That won’t do us any damn good,” said Quint. “I can’t stick him if he’s twelve feet under water.”
“Once he comes out,” said Hooper, “maybe he’ll come up. We’re not having any luck with anything else.”
But the fish did not come out. The cage lay quietly in the water, unmolested.
“There goes another squid,” said Quint, pointing forward. “He’s there, all right.” He leaned overboard and shouted, “God damn you, fish! Come out where I can have a shot at you.”
After fifteen minutes, Hooper said, “Oh well,” and went below. He reappeared moments later, carrying a movie camera in a waterproof housing, and what looked to Brody like a walking stick with a thong at one end.
“What are you doing?” Brody said.
“I’m going down there. Maybe that’ll bring him out.”
“You’re out of your goddam mind. What are you going to do if he does come out?”
“First, I’m going to take some pictures of him. Then I’m going to try to kill him.”
“With what, may I ask?”
“This.” Hooper held up the stick.
“Good thinking,” Quint said with a derisive cackle. “If that doesn’t work you can tickle him to death.”
“What is that?” said Brody.
“Some people call it a bang stick. Others call it a power head. Anyway, it’s basically an underwater gun.” He pulled both ends of the stick, and it came apart in two pieces. “In here,” he said, pointing to a chamber at the point where the stick had come apart, “you put a twelve-gauge shotgun shell.” He took a shotgun shell from his pocket and pushed it into the chamber, then rejoined the two ends of the stick. “Then, when you get close enough to the fish, you jab it at him and the shell goes off. If you hit him right—in the brain’s the only sure place—you kill him.”
“Even a fish that big?”
“I think so. If I hit him right.”
“And if you don’t? Suppose you miss by just a hair.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“I would be, too,” said Quint. “I don’t think I’d like five thousand pounds of pissed-off dinosaur trying to eat me.”
“That’s not my worry,” said Hooper. “What con
cerns me is that if I miss, I might drive him off. He’d probably sound, and we’d never know if he died or not.”
“Until he ate someone else,” said Brody.
“That’s right.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” said Quint.
“Am I, Quint? You’re not having much success with this fish. We could stay here all month and let him eat your bait right out from under us.”
“He’ll come up,” said Quint. “Mark my words.”
“You’ll be dead of old age before he comes up, Quint. I think this fish has you all shook. He’s not playing by the rules.”
Quint looked at Hooper and said evenly, “You telling me my business, boy?”
“No. But I am telling you I think this fish is more than you can handle.”
“That right, boy? You think you can do better ’n Quint?”
“Call it that if you want. I think I can kill the fish.”
“Fine and dandy. You’re gonna get your chance.”
Brody said, “Come on. We can’t let him go in that thing.”
“What are you bitchin’ about?” said Quint. “From what I seen, you just as soon he went down there and never come up. At least that’d stop him from—”
“Shut your mouth!” Brody’s emotions were jumbled. Part of him didn’t care whether Hooper lived or died—might even relish the prospect of Hooper’s death. But such vengeance would be hollow—and, quite possibly, unmerited. Could he really wish a man dead? No. Not yet.
“Go on,” Quint said to Hooper. “Get in that thing.”
“Right away.” Hooper removed his shirt, sneakers, and trousers, and began to pull the neoprene suit over his legs. “When I’m inside,” he said, forcing his arms into the rubber sleeves of the jacket, “stand up here and keep an eye. Maybe you can use the rifle if he gets close enough to the surface.” He looked at Quint. “You can be ready with the harpoon … if you want to.”
“I’ll do what I’ll do,” said Quint. “You worry about yourself.”
When he was dressed, Hooper fit the regulator onto the neck of the air tank, tightened the wing nut that held it in place, and opened the air valve. He sucked two breaths from the tank to make sure it was feeding air. “Help me put this on, will you?” he said to Brody.
Brody lifted the tank and held it while Hooper slipped his arms through the straps and fastened a third strap around his middle. He put the face mask on his head. “I should have brought weights,” said Hooper.
Quint said, “You should have brought brains.”
Hooper put his right wrist through the thong at the end of the power head, picked up the camera with his right hand, and said, “Okay.” He walked to the gunwale. “If you’ll each take a rope and pull, that’ll bring the cage to the surface. Then I’ll open the hatch and go in through the top, and you can let the ropes go. It’ll hang by the ropes. I won’t use the flotation tanks unless one of the ropes breaks.”
“Or gets chewed through,” said Quint.
Hooper looked at Quint and smiled. “Thanks for the thought.”
Quint and Brody pulled on the ropes, and the cage rose in the water. When the hatch broke the surface, Hooper said, “Okay, right there.” He spat in the face mask, rubbed the saliva around on the glass, and fit the mask over his face. He reached for the regulator tube, put the mouthpiece in his mouth, and took a breath. Then he bent over the gunwale, unlatched the top of the hatch and flipped it open. He started to put a knee on the gunwale, but stopped. He took the mouthpiece out of his mouth and said, “I forgot something.” His nose was encased in the mask, so his voice sounded thick and nasal. He walked across the deck and picked up his trousers. He rummaged through the pockets until he found what he was looking for. He unzipped his wet-suit jacket.
“What’s that?” said Brody.
Hooper held up a shark’s tooth, rimmed in silver. It was a duplicate of the one he had given Ellen. He dropped it inside his wet suit and zipped up the jacket. “Can’t be too careful,” he said, smiling. He crossed the deck again, put his mouthpiece in his mouth, and kneeled on the gunwale. He took a final breath and dove overboard through the open hatch. Brody watched him go, wondering if he really wanted to know the truth about Hooper and Ellen.
Hooper stopped himself before he hit the bottom of the cage. He curled around and stood up. He reached out the top of the hatch and pulled it closed. Then he looked up at Brody, put the thumb and index finger of his left hand together in the okay sign, and ducked down.
“I guess we can let go,” said Brody. They released the ropes and let the cage descend until the hatch was about four feet beneath the surface.
“Get the rifle,” said Quint. “It’s on the rack below. It’s all loaded.” He climbed onto the transom and lifted the harpoon to his shoulder.
Brody went below, found the rifle, and hurried back on deck. He opened the breach and slid a cartridge into the chamber. “How much air does he have?” he said.
“I don’t know,” said Quint. “However much he has, I doubt he’ll live to breathe it.”
“Maybe you’re right. But you said yourself you never know what these fish will do.”
“Yeah, but this is different. This is like putting your hand in a fire and hoping you won’t get burned. A sensible man don’t do it.”
Below, Hooper waited until the bubbly froth of his descent had dissipated. There was water in his mask, so he tilted his head backward, pressed on the top of the faceplate, and blew through his nose until the mask was clear. He felt serene. It was the pervasive sense of freedom and ease that he always felt when he dived. He was alone in the blue silence speckled with shafts of sunlight that danced through the water. The only sounds were those he made breathing—a deep, hollow noise as he breathed in, a soft thudding of bubbles as he exhaled. He held his breath, and the silence was complete. Without weights he was too buoyant, and he had to hold on to the bars to keep his tank from clanging against the hatch overhead. He turned around and looked up at the hull of the boat, a gray body that sat above him, bouncing slowly. At first, the cage annoyed him. It confined him, restricted him, prevented him from enjoying the grace of underwater movement. But then he remembered why he was there, and he was grateful.
He looked for the fish. He knew it couldn’t be sitting beneath the boat, as Quint had thought. It could not “sit” anywhere, could not rest or stay still. It had to move to survive.
Even with the bright sunlight, the visibility in the murky water was poor—no more than forty feet. Hooper turned slowly around, trying to pierce the edge of gloom and grasp any sliver of color or movement. He looked beneath the boat, where the water turned from blue to gray to black. Nothing. He looked at his watch, calculating that if he controlled his breathing, he could stay down for at least half an hour more.
Carried by the tide, one of the small white squid slipped between the bars of the cage and, tethered by twine, fluttered in Hooper’s face. He pushed it out of the cage.
He glanced downward, started to look away, then snapped his eyes down again. Rising at him from the darkling blue—slowly, smoothly—was the shark. It rose with no apparent effort, an angel of death gliding toward an appointment foreordained.
Hooper stared, enthralled, impelled to flee but unable to move. As the fish drew nearer, he marveled at its colors: the flat brown-grays seen on the surface had vanished. The top of the immense body was a hard ferrous gray, bluish where dappled with streaks of sun. Beneath the lateral line, all was creamy, ghostly white.
Hooper wanted to raise his camera, but his arm would not obey. In a minute, he said to himself, in a minute.
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 ri
ppled—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 fins, 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 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.