Dean Koontz - The Voice of the Night

Frank emptied the revolver into the turmoil. He must have hit at least one of the monsters, for the commotion grew considerably worse than it had been.

Colin wished he could look away from the slaughter. But he couldn’t. Something held him.

“They’re cannibals,” one of the men said.

“Sharks will eat anything.”

“They’re worse than goats.”

“Fishermen have found some pretty strange things in sharks’ stomachs.”

“Yeah. I know a guy who found a wristwatch.”

“I heard of someone finding a wedding ring.”

“A cigar case full of water-logged stogies.”

“False teeth.”

“A rare coin worth a small fortune.”

“Anything indigestible that the victim was wearing or carrying, it stays right there in the shark’s gut.”

“Why don’t we haul in one of these mothers and see what it’s keeping in its belly?”

“Hey, that might be interesting.”

“Cut it open right here on the deck.”

“Might find a rare coin and get rich.”

“Probably just find a lot of freshly eaten shark meat.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“At least it’s something to do.”

“You’re right. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“Irv, better rig one of those rods again.”

They started drinking whiskey and beer again.

Colin watched.

Jack took the chair, and two minutes later he had a bite. By the time he’d brought the shark alongside, the feeding frenzy had ended; the pack had moved away. But the frenzy aboard the Erica Lynn had just begun.

Colin’s father reloaded the.38. He leaned over the railing and pumped two bullets into the huge fish.

“Right in the head.”

“Scrambled his fuckin’ brains a little.”

“Shark’s got a brain like a pea.”

“Same as yours?”

“That thing dead?”

“Ain’t movin‘.”

“Bring it up.”

“Let’s have a look inside.”

“Find that rare coin.”

“Or the false teeth.”

Whiskey and beer.

Jack reeled in as much line as he could. The dead shark was bumping against the side of the boat.

“Damn thing’s ten feet long.”

“Nobody’s going to haul that baby up with just a gaff.”

“They have a winch.”

“It’s going to be a messy job.”

“Might be worth it if we find that rare coin.”

“We’re more likely to find a coin in your stomach.”

With five men, two ropes, three gaffs, and a power winch, they managed to hoist the shark out of the sea and over the stem railing, and then lost control of it a second before it was down, so that it crashed onto the deck, whereupon it came back to life unexpectedly, or half life anyway, for the bullets had hurt it and stunned it, but they had not killed it, and the beast thrashed on the deck, and everyone jumped back, and Pete grabbed a gaff and swung and slammed the hook into the shark’s head, spraying blood on several people, and the mighty jaws snapped, trying to get at Pete, and another man rushed forward with another gaff and embedded the long point in one of the shark’s eyes, and a third gaff found its way into one of the bullet wounds, and there was blood everywhere, so that Colin thought of the Kingman killings, and all the men in their swimsuits were spotted and streaked with blood, and Colin’s father yelled for everyone to stand back, and although Irv told him not to fire toward the deck, Colin’s father put one more round in the shark’s brain, and finally it stopped moving, and everyone was very excited, talking and shouting at once, and they got down in the blood and rolled the shark over and tore at its belly with the gutting knife, and the white flesh resisted for a moment but then gave, and out of the long rent spilled a putrid, slimy mass of guts and half-digested fish, and those still standing cheered while those on their knees pawed through the disgusting muck, looking for the mythical rare coin, the wedding ring, the cigar case, or the false teeth, laughing and joking, even tossing handfuls of gore at one another.

Suddenly Colin found the strength to move. He bolted toward the front of the boat, slipped in blood, stumbled, almost fell, regained his balance. When he had gone as far from the revelers and as far forward as he could, he leaned through the railing and vomited over the side.

By the time Colin finished, his father was there, towering over him, the very image of savagery, skin painted with blood, hair matted with blood, eyes wild. His voice was soft but intense. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I was sick,” Colin said weakly. “Just sick. It’s over now.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m okay now.”

“Do you try to embarrass me?”

“Huh?”

“In front of my friends like this?”

Colin stared, unable to comprehend.

“They’re making jokes about you.”

“Well…”

“They’re making fun of you.”

Colin was dizzy.

“Sometimes I wonder about you,” his father said.

“I couldn’t help it. I threw up. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop it.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you are my son.”

“I am. Of course I am.”

His father leaned close and studied him, as if searching for the telltale features of an old friend or milkman. His breath was foul.

Whiskey and beer.

And blood.

“Sometimes you don’t act like a boy at all. Sometimes you don’t look like you’ll ever make a man,” his father said quietly but urgently.

“I’m trying.”

“Are you?”

“I really am,” Colin said despairingly.

“Sometimes you act like a pansy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes you act like a goddamned queer.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Do you want to pull yourself together?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you pull yourself together?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you?”

“Sure I can.”

“Will you?”

“Sure.”

“Do it.”

“I need a couple of minutes-”

“Now! Do it now!”

“Okay.”

“Pull yourself together”

“Okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re shaking.”

“No I’m not.”

“You going to come back with me?”

“All right.”

“Show those guys whose son you are.”

“I’m your son.”

“You’ve got to prove it, Junior.”

“I will.”

“You’ve got to show me proof.”

“Can I have a beer?”

“What?”

“I think maybe it would help.”

“Help what?”

“It might make me feel better.”

“You want a beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, that’s more like it!”

Frank Jacobs grinned and mussed his son’s hair with one bloody hand.

Colin sat on a bench by the cabin wall, sipped his cold beer, and wondered what would happen next.

Having found nothing of interest in the shark’s stomach, they heaved the dead beast over the side. It floated for a moment, then suddenly sank or was dragged under by something with a big appetite.

The blood-drenched men lined up along the starboard rail while Irv hosed them down with sea water. They stripped out of their swimsuits, which had to be thrown away, and they lathered up with bars of grainy, yellow soap, all the while making jokes about one another’s genitalia. Each received one bucket of fresh water with which to rinse. While they went below to dry off and change into their street clothes, Irv sluiced the deck, washing the last traces of blood into the scuppers.

Later, the men did some skeet shooting. Charlie and Irv always carried two shotguns and a target launcher aboard the Erica Lynn, to entertain customers when the fish weren’t biting. The men drank whiskey and beer, blasted away at the whirling discs, and forgot all about fishing.