The quarry was a mess.
I couldn't see any in the way they sliced the granite out of the
mountain. The idea of a four-year-old--a four-year-old moron--going
after a mound of raspberry ice cream kept turning up in my mind as I
walked around.
The workmen were gone; it was after five local time. But here and
there I saw traces of them. Some of them were sandwich wrappers and
cigarette stubs, but most of the traces were smears of blood. Blood
streaked across sharp rocks, blood oozing from beneath heavy rocks,
blood smeared on the handles and working surfaces of sledge hammers and
tools. The place was as gory as a battlefield.
"What are you looking for, bud?"
The low, level snarl had come from a burly character in a syn-leather
jacket and narrow-brimmed Stetson.
"The reason you have so many accidents here," I said frankly. "I'm from
the insurance company. Name's Madison."
"Yeah, I know."