The sound of the stone striking bone was a dull, heavy thump, muffled by the boiling mud of the drainage channel, yet it cut through the roar of escaping steam with sickening precision.
Jon Hale saw the granite block drop before he heard it strike.
The two-ton fracture from the ceiling did not slide down the wall; it sheared free in an explosion of grey dust, kicked sideways by the violent shudder of the dropping intake gate, and plummeted into the narrow recess of the threshold sill. In that brief, horrific fraction of a second, Jon saw Alden Bram scramble backward, saw the master mason’s thick hands claw at the iron grating, and saw the ragged bottom edge of the stone crash down across his right boot.
A single, strangled gasp tore from Bram’s throat. It was no theatrical shriek; instead, it was the wet, choked sound of a man having the breath punched violently out of his chest as living bone shattered against immovable rock.
The impact vibrated through the basalt catwalk under Jon’s own boots, sending a sharp jolt through the soles of his feet.
“Alden!” Jon shouted, throwing himself forward across the iron railing.
He dropped four feet down from the catwalk, his heavy leather soles slamming into the steaming mud of the flume. Boiling runoff splashed up against his shins, the scalding water soaking through his woolen trousers and biting into his skin, but he ignored the sting. His eyes were locked on the grey-haired figure…
