Chapter 10: The Sling

Anson drove me down the hill in the dark with the hazards on.

At five-thirty the site lights were still on and the river was black.

My bolt-up partner met us at the hoist with the cut sling coiled over her shoulder.

Somebody had laid a blade into the yellow nylon and pulled, neat and slow, through two thirds of the webbing.

Enough to hold a load at rest.

Not enough to hold it once it started to swing.

"It was on the beam bundle by the north column," she said. "First pick of the day."

"I only saw it because I dropped my coffee lid."

Anson turned the sling over in his scarred hands and didn't say a word.

The site superintendent came out of his trailer at six with a clipboard. He was Hayden's man, hired in March.

He looked at the sling and shrugged.

"Kids," he said. "Vandals. Somebody hops the fence every summer. Swap it out and let's go. We're three days behind for the Fourth."

"Every sling on the deck gets checked first," I said.

"By who?"

"By me."

He looked at Anson. "Fine. Twenty minutes."

We went up.

My gang checked every sling rigged on the deck, end to end.

At ten to seven the operator called down from the cab that he was ready.

The first pick was a bundle of three beams, rigged with two slings in a basket.

I checked both slings myself.

I didn't check the part folded under the steel, against the inside of the bottom beam.

You can't. Not without lifting the load.

I signaled the operator to hoist.

The bundle came up off the deck and the slings went tight.

The apprentice was below me on the edge of thirty-eight, holding the tag line, feet set wide the way I'd taught him.

The load rose ten feet. Twenty.

Then I heard it.

A sound like a zipper, very fast.

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