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.”

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.