“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 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.”

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 meandered 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 elbow 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.