Jaws (9 page)

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt He thought to himself: Stop her before she says anything else. But all he could say

was, "Ssshhht"

"You did! You killed him!" Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her head snapped forward as she screamed, as if she were trying to inject the words into Brody.

"You won't get away with it!"

"Please, Mrs. Kintner," said Brody. "Calm down. Just for a minute. Let me explain." He reached to touch her shoulder and help her to a chair, but she jerked away.

"Keep your fucking hands off me!" she cried. "You knew. You knew all along, but you wouldn't say. And now a six-year-old boy, a beautiful six-year-old boy, my boy..." Tears seemed to pulse from her eyes, and as she quivered in her rage, droplets were cast from her face. "You knew! Why didn't you tell? Why?" She clutched herself, wrapping her arms around her body as they would be wrapped in a straitjacket, and she looked into Brody's eyes. "Why?"

"It's . . ." Brody fumbled for words. "It's a long story." He felt wounded, incapacitated as surely as if he had been shot. He didn't know if he could explain now. He

wasn't even sure he could speak.

"I bet it is," said the woman. "Oh, you evil man. You evil, evil man. You..."

"Stop it!" Brody's shout was both plea and command. It stopped her. "Now look, Mrs. Kintner, you've got it wrong, all wrong. Ask Mr. Meadows." Meadows, transfixed by the scene, nodded dumbly.

"Of course he'd say that. Why shouldn't he? He's your pal, isn't he? He probably told you you were doing the right thing." Her rage was mounting again, flooding, resuscitated by a new burst of emotional amperage. "You probably decided together. That makes it easier, doesn't it? Did you make money?"

"What?"

"Did you make money from my son's blood? Did someone pay you not to tell what you knew?"

Brody was horrified. "No! Christ, of course not."

"Then why? Tell me. Tell me why. I'll pay you. Just tell me why!"

"Because we didn't think it could happen again." Brody was surprised by his brevity. That was it, really, wasn't it?

The woman was silent for a moment, letting the words register in her muddled mind. She seemed to repeat them to herself. She said, "Oh," then, a second later,

"Jesus."

All of a sudden, as if a switch had been turned somewhere inside her, shutting off power, she had no more self-control. She slumped into the chair next to Meadows and began to weep in gasping, choking sobs.

Meadows tried to calm her, but she didn't hear him. She didn't hear Brody when he told Bixby to call a doctor. And she saw, heard, and felt nothing when the doctor came into the office, listened to Brody's description of what had happened, tried to talk to her,

gave her a shot of Librium, led her --with the help of one of Brody's men --to his car, and drove her to the hospital. When she had left, Brody looked at his watch and said,

"It's

not even nine o'clock yet. If ever I felt like I could use a drink... wow."

"If you're serious," said Meadows, "I have some Bourbon back in my office."

"No. If this was any indication of how the rest of the day's going to go, I better not

fuck up my head."

"It's hard, but you've got to try not to take what she said too seriously. I mean, the

woman was in shock, for one thing."

"I know, Harry. Any doctor would say she didn't know what she was saying. The trouble is, I'd already thought a lot of the things she was saying. Not in those words, maybe, but the thoughts were the same."

"Come on, Martin, you know you can't blame yourself."

"I know. I could blame Larry Vaughan. Or maybe even you. But the point is, the two deaths yesterday could have been prevented. I could have prevented them, and I didn't. Period."

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file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt The phone rang. It was answered in the other room, and a voice on the intercom said, "It's Mr. Vaughan."

Brody pushed the lighted button, picked up the receiver, and said, "Hi, Larry. Did

you have a nice weekend?"

"Until about eleven o'clock last night," said Vaughan, "when I turned on my car radio driving home. I was tempted to call you last night, but I figured you had had a rough enough day without being bothered at that hour."

"That's one decision I agree with."

"Don't rub it in, Martin. I feel bad enough." Brody wanted to say, "Do you, Larry?" He wanted to serape the wound raw, to unload some of the anguish onto someone else. But he knew it was both unfair to attempt and impossible to accomplish, so all he said was, "Sure."

"I had two cancellations already this morning. Big leases. Good people. They had already signed, and I told them I could take them to court. They said, go ahead: we're going somewhere else. I'm scared to answer the phone. I still have twenty houses that aren't rented for August."

"I wish I could tell you different, Larry, but it's going to get worse."

"What do you mean?"

"With the beaches closed."

"How long do you think you'll have to keep them closed?"

"I don't know. As long as it takes. A few days. Maybe more."

"You know that the end of next week is the Fourth of July weekend."

"Sure, I know."

"It's already too late to hope for a good summer, but we may be able to salvage something --for August, at least --if the Fourth is good." Brody couldn't read the tone in Vaughan's voice. "Are you arguing with me, Larry?"

"No. I guess I was thinking out loud. Or praying out loud. Anyway, you plan to keep the beaches closed until what? Indefinitely? How will you know when that thing's gone away?"

"I haven't had time to think that far ahead. I don't even know why it's here. Let me

ask you something, Larry. Just out of curiosity."

"What?"

"Who are your partners?"

It was a long moment before Vaughan said, "Why do you want to know? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Like I said, just curiosity."

"You keep your curiosity for your job, Martin. Let me worry about my business."

"Sure, Larry. No offense."

"So what are you going to do? We can't just sit around and hope it will go away. We could starve to death while we waited."

"I know. Meadows and I were just talking about our options. A fish-expert friend of Harry's says we could try to catch the fish. What would you think about getting up a couple of hundred dollars to charter Ben Gardner's boat for a day or two? I don't know that he's ever caught any sharks, but it might be worth a try."

"Anything's worth a try, just so we get rid of that thing and go back to making a living. Go ahead. Tell him I'll get the money from somewhere." Brody hung up the phone and said to Meadows, "I don't know why I care, but I'd give my ass to know more about Mr. Vaughan's business affairs."

"Why?"

"He's a very rich man. No matter how long this shark thing goes on, he won't be badly hurt. Sure, he'll lose a little dough, but he's taking all this as if it was life and death

--and I don't mean just the town's. His."

"Maybe he's just a conscientious fellow."

"That wasn't conscience talking on the phone just then. Believe me, Harry. I know what conscience is."

Ten miles south of the eastern tip of Long Island, a chartered fishing boat file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (31 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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

slowly in the tide. Two wire lines trailed limply aft in an oily slick. The captain of the

boat, a tall, spare man, sat on a bench on the flying bridge, staring at the water. Below, in

the cockpit, the two men who had chartered the boat sat reading. One was reading a novel, the other the New York Times.

"Hey, Quint," said the man with the newspaper, "did you see this about the shark that killed those people?"

"I seen it," said the captain.

"You think we'll run into that shark?"

"Nope."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"Suppose we went looking for him."

"We won't."

"Why not?"

"We got a slick goin'. We'll stay put."

The man shook his head and smiled. "Boy, wouldn't that be some sport."

"Fish like that ain't sport," said the captain.

"How far is Amity from here?"

"Down the coast a ways."

"Well, if he's around here somewhere, you might run into him one of these days."

"We'll find one another, all right. But not today."

Chapter 5

Thursday morning was foggy --a wet ground fog so thick that it had a taste: sharp and salty. People drove under the speed limit, with their lights on. Around midday, the fog lifted, and puffy cumulus clouds maundered across the sky beneath a high blanket of cirrus. By five in the afternoon, the cloud cover had begun to disintegrate, like pieces fallen from a jigsaw puzzle. Sunlight streaked through the gaps, stabbing shining patches of blue onto the gray-green surface of the sea.

Brody sat on the public beach, his elbows resting on his knees to steady the binoculars in his hands. When he lowered the glasses, he could barely see the boat --a white speck that disappeared and reappeared in the ocean swells. The strong lenses drew it into plain, though jiggly, view. Brody had been sitting there for nearly an hour. He tried

to push his eyes, to extend his vision from within to delineate more clearly the outline of

what he saw. He cursed and let the glasses drop and hang by the strap around his neck.

"Hey, Chief," Hendricks said, walking up to Brody.

"Hey, Leonard. What are you doing here?"

"I was just passing by and I saw your car. What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out what the hell Ben Gardner's doing."

"Fishing, don't you think?"

"That's what he's being paid to do, but it's the damnedest fishing I ever saw. I've

been here an hour, and I haven't seen anything move on that boat."

"Can I take a look?" Brody handed him the glasses. Hendricks raised them and looked out at sea. "Nope, you're right. How long has he been out there?"

"All day, I think. I talked to him last night, and he said he'd be taking off at six

this morning."

"Did he go alone?"

"I don't know. He said he was going to try to get hold of his mate --Danny what's-his-name --but there was something about a dentist appointment. I hope to hell he didn't go alone."

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (32 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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

"You want to go see? We've got at least two more hours of daylight."

"How do you plan to get out there?"

"I'll borrow Chickering's boat. He's got an AquaSport with an eighty-horse Evinrude on it. That'll get us out there."

Brody felt a shimmy of fear skitter up his back. He was a very poor swimmer, and the prospect of being on top of --let alone in --water above his head gave him what his mother used to call the wimwams: sweaty palms, a persistent need to swallow, and an ache in his stomach --essentially the sensation some people feel about flying. In Brody's

dreams, deep water was populated by slimy, savage things that rose from below and shredded his flesh, by demons that cackled and moaned. "Okay," he said. "I don't guess we've got much choice. Maybe by the time we get to the dock he'll already have started in. You go get the boat ready. I'll stop off at headquarters and give his wife a call... see if

he's called in on the radio."

Amity's town dock was small, with only twenty slips, a fuel dock, and a wooden shack where hot dogs and fried clams were sold in cardboard sleeves. The slips were in a little inlet protected from the open sea by a stone jetty that ran across half the width of the

inlet's mouth. Hendricks was standing in the AquaSport, the engine running, and he was chatting with a man in a twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser tied up in the neighboring slip. Brody walked along the wooden pier and climbed down the short ladder into the boat.

"What did she say?" asked Hendricks.

"Not a word. She's been trying to raise him for half an hour, but she figures he must have turned off the radio."

"Is he alone?"

"As far as she knows. His mate had an impacted wisdom tooth that had to be taken out today."

The man in the cabin cruiser said, "If you don't mind my saying so, that's pretty strange."

"What is?" said Brody.

"To turn off your radio when you're out alone. People don't do that."

"I don't know. Ben always bitches about all the chatter that goes on between boats

when he's out fishing. Maybe he got bored and turned it off."

"Maybe."

"Let's go, Leonard," said Brody. "Do you know how to drive this thing?" Hendricks cast off the bow line, walked to the stern, uncleated the stern line, and

tossed it onto the deck. He moved to the control console and pushed a knobbed handle forward. The boat lurched ahead, chugging. Hendricks pushed the handle farther forward, and the engine fired more regularly. The stern settled back, the bow rose. As they made the turn around the jetty, Hendricks pushed the lever all the way forward, and the bow dropped down.

"Planing," said Hendricks.

Brody grabbed a steel handle on the side of the console. "Are there any life jackets?" he asked.

"Just the cushions," said Hendricks. "They'd hold you up all right, if you were an

eight-year-old boy."

"Thanks."

What breeze there had been had died, and there was little chop to the sea. But there were small swells, and the boat took them roughly, smacking its prow into each one, recovering with a shudder that unnerved Brody. "This thing's gonna break apart if you don't slow down," he said.