John D. MacDonald
Make One False Move
When Pierson turned off the asphalt onto the side road, the homemade trailer bounced hard. He gave an apprehensive glance back to see if the boat was all right. He realized that through eagerness he had pushed the speed up too far.
Another five minutes and he’d be there. The sun was directly overhead in the cloudless sky. There wasn’t a breath of wind. This last day would have to be perfection.
He put the coupe into low gear for the sand ahead. The only thing that could spoil the day now would be the damn porpoises. His big brown fingers clamped hard on the wheel when he thought of them, when he remembered the last perfect day, and coming over the rise to look down into the bay only to see the fool things rolling and playing and snorting. Anger thickened his throat. If they spoiled this last day, too...
With that in mind, he’d put the carbine in the back end. The penalty was stiff, but this was a deserted enough stretch of beach so he could get away with it. There’d be a lot of satisfaction in getting even with the fool things, pumping lead into them. The day would be no good, of course, but neither would a few porpoises. He came over the last rise, tense and expectant. The ocean was almost flat calm. It had an oily, pre-storm look. The long, flat swells broke thickly against the long coral reef that protected the hidden bay.
Pierson let out his breath in a great sigh of relief. No porpoises. This was the day. And this was the place. Every factor was refined and focused on this day and on the bay he had found after a long search.
Now there was deep satisfaction and excitement in him. He made himself move with great care. He drove as close as he could to the water, untied the boat, slid it backward out of the bent-pipe framework and muscled it down across the sand. It made the sweat stand out on his face and his naked chest. He was a compactly muscled man with a look of power in his corded shoulders.
He carried the equipment from the car down to the small boat and counted it all twice before shoving off. Then he rowed straight out for a hundred yards and shipped the oars. He sat and measured the amount of drift, decided that the light anchor wouldn’t be necessary.
There was a ritual in every move. He knew that the bottom was twenty to twenty-five feet down. First he took the big metal cartridge of carbon dioxide and inserted it into the gun, locking it in place. Next he snapped a forty-foot line onto a stout ring set into the right side of the gun and made certain the other end of the line was secure inside the small boat. The barb, razor-sharp, glittering, was affixed to a short shaft which he inserted into the barrel of the gun. The second line, fastened behind the barb, was a hundred feet long. He coiled it loosely in the stern and made certain that it, too, was tied firmly to the boat and in a position where it would not foul the gun line. He laid the shining gun on the seat. It helped to have it bright so that it would glitter in the water.
Next, he prepared himself. He put on the swim fins, inserted the rubber ear plugs. He dipped the face mask over the side, then crumpled a damp cigarette and rubbed the glass, inside and out. He splashed water on his face, put the mask on and tested the fit by trying to blow out through his nose. It was snug all the way around.
With each step his excitement mounted.
Making certain that the broad-bladed knife was secure in the sheath that hung from his belt, he slipped over the side, taking great care to go into the water with a minimum of splash. He took the heavy gun in his right hand and, holding to the boat with his left, he emptied his lungs, filled them, emptied them again, all the time looking around at the bright surface of the water.
He took his last breath and let go of the boat. He went under, and the weighted gun pulled him almost head-down. He kicked powerfully, sliding down through the darkening green, down to the packed sand of the bottom. Through long practice he knew that he was good for two and a half minutes. He could reach bottom without the gun, or surface with it in his hands, but this system he had devised suited his plans.
As he reached the bottom he turned and his feet settled, almost without weight, on the sand. There was a large shattered conch shell a few feet away. It was odd how the fish never seemed to be alarmed by a man who came down into their world. Curiosity always brought them near. The little ones always flittered away into the green shadows when he moved, but the big ones would remain to watch him owlishly, looking almost bored.
Pierson knew that this was the right place, if ever a place could be right. The nearness of the coral helped. The bottom was good. And the entrance to the bay, beyond the reef, was forty feet deep.
A small school of sheepshead, with their ridiculous faces that look like caricatures, angled down by him and went on off to some mysterious and obviously important destination.
Some sand perch, glittering like jewels, approached and fled in mock panic. Suddenly all the small fish were gone. A vast shadow came near him. He turned slowly, every muscle taut, and saw that it was just a huge jew fish, probably close to six hundred pounds, as stately and unconcerned as a dowager in an art gallery. Saucer eyes looked blankly at him and it moved off beyond his restricted range of vision. Once upon a time he might have tried for it, but he had learned that the spirit of this huge fish was torpid. It fought wallowingly for a time, then surrendered meekly.
A slow current moved him a few effortless feet. He began to feel the need of air. He put the gun gently on the bottom and shot up, careful to avoid the dark shadow of the boat overhead. He came out into the air and moved slowly to the boat as his labored breathing calmed down.
He lived for these days. And this was the last one. Early tomorrow he would have to start back north. This year the overcast weather had defeated him. When vision was bad on the bottom, he did shallow fishing on the reefs, but the big stuff was never there. And there was always the chance of a bad nip from the myriad needle-teeth of a moray eel.
He went down strongly, following the double line down to the shining gun. He grabbed it and let its weight pull him gently down onto his feet. A stingaree, evil, flat, as big around as a bushel basket, skimmed by with its peculiar flapping motion like a grotesque bird. They were harmless unless trod upon on the bottom. Then the barbed tail would whip over to stab the ankle or the top of the foot.
He carefully stalked an odd shadow until he could see it plainly. Just a little sand shark about a yard long. It ignored him. It turned slowly over onto its back and then wiggled along, scratching its back on the bottom, like a puppy wiggling on a living-room rug. Pierson grinned.
Suddenly he tightened. A huge black grouper, all of sixty pounds, appeared from the left. It hung in the water, looking at him. One-third of it was head. He knew it wasn’t a record grouper, but it was big enough to be thoroughly impressive.
He waggled the barb back and forth slowly and the grouper drifted toward it. Its big mouth worked. The glitter of the barb had caught its eye.
Pierson stood motionless as the big lips came close, touched the barb. Then the black, satisfied that the glitter was inedible, turned slowly away. Pierson put the barb within an inch of the sleek side and pulled the trigger. The water in front of the muzzle boiled into a million white bubbles as the barb was thrust deep into the fish. The grouper pinwheeled violently off into the green blackness.
Pierson kicked up with all his strength, carrying the gun up with him. The swim fins, with his practiced leg-thrust, drove him up so that he surfaced beside the boat. He put the gun inside, heaved himself up over the stern. The coiled line was going out rapidly. He grabbed it, shoving his mask up onto his forehead. He let it slip through his tough hands, increasing the pressure. The boat was pulled along as the fish wore itself out.