Jaws by Peter Benchley Page A

look.”
    “I’m looking.” In a few moments he said, “Sonofabitch. Look at that thing. Hey, pull me up. I need my knife.”
    “What is it?” Brody asked when Hendricks was back aboard.
    Hendricks unfolded the main blade from the body of his pocket knife. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Some kind of white chip or something, stuck into one of the holes.” Knife in hand, he allowed Brody to lower him over the rail again. He worked briefly, his body twisting from the effort. Then he called: “Okay. I’ve got it. Pull.”
    Brody stepped backward, hoisting Hendricks over the transom, then lowered Hendricks’ feet to the deck. “Let’s see,” he said, holding out his hand. Into Brody’s palm Hendricks dropped a triangle of glistening white denticle. It was nearly two inches long. The sides were tiny saws. Brody scraped the tooth against the gunwale, and it cut the wood. He looked out over the water and shook his head. “My God,” he said.
    “It’s a tooth, isn’t it?” said Hendricks. “Jesus Christ Almighty. You think the shark got Ben?”
    “I don’t know what else to think,” said Brody. He looked at the tooth again, then dropped it into his pocket. “We might as well go. There’s nothing we can do here.”
    “What do you want to do with Ben’s boat?”
    “We’ll leave it here till tomorrow. Then we’ll have someone come get it.”
    “I’ll drive it back if you want.”
    “And leave me to drive the other one? Forget it.”
    “We could tow one of them in.”
    “No. It’s getting dark, and I don’t want to have to fool around trying to dock two boats in the dark. This boat’ll be all right overnight. Just go check the anchor up front andmake sure it’s secure. Then let’s go. No one’s going to need this boat before tomorrow … especially not Ben Gardner.”
    They arrived at the dock in late twilight. Harry Meadows and another man, unknown to Brody, were waiting for them. “You sure have good antenna, Harry,” Brody said as he climbed the ladder onto the dock.
    Meadows smiled, flattered. “That’s my trade, Martin.” He gestured toward the man beside him. “This is Matt Hooper, Chief Brody.”
    The two men shook hands. “You’re the fellow from Woods Hole,” Brody said, trying to get a good look at him in the fading light. He was young—mid-twenties, Brody thought—and handsome: tanned, hair bleached by the sun. He was about as tall as Brody, an inch over six feet, but leaner: Brody guessed 170 pounds, compared to his own 200. A mental reflex scanned Hooper for possible threat. Then, with what Brody recognized as juvenile pride, he determined that if it ever came to a face-off, he could take Hooper. Experience would make the difference.
    “That’s right,” said Hooper.
    “Harry’s been tapping your brain long-distance,” Brody said. “How come you’re here?”
    Meadows said, “I called him. I thought he might be able to figure out what’s going on.”
    “Shit, Harry, all you had to do was ask me,” said Brody. “I could have told you. You see, there’s this fish out there, and …”
    “You know what I mean.”
    Brody sensed his own resentment at the intrusion, the complication that Hooper’s expertise was bound to add, the implicit division of authority that Hooper’s arrival had created. And he recognized the resentment as stupid. “Sure, Harry,” he said. “No problem. It’s just been a long day.”
    “What did you find out there?” Meadows asked.
    Brody started to reach in his pocket for the tooth, but he stopped. He didn’t want to go through it all, standing on adock in near darkness. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Come on back to the station and I’ll fill you in.”
    “Is Ben going to stay out there all night?”
    “It looks that way, Harry.” Brody turned to Hendricks, who had finished tying up the boat. “You going home, Leonard?”
    “Yeah. I want to clean up before I go to work.”
    Brody arrived at police headquarters before