"The Teardrop"
Written by: Quentin L. Gardner, Linda Ford, and CoronetBlue — Director: Phil Turner
Producer(s): Lea Ames — Post Production: Brixius — Creator: Roy Huggins
THE PROLOGUE
HAVENTOWN, OHIO - INSIDE A BARN - THREE WEEKS EARLIER - NIGHT
The barn is laced with shadows. Moonlight falls in shafts through gaps in the old roof. The barn door creaks open and
a man in black enters, his face hidden by a ski mask. From a low angle the camera follows his legs as he strides with
an uneven gait toward the bales of hay stacked in the back. He maneuvers several bales aside, then clears the loose
straw at his feet until he locates a trap door in the floor.
The man squats, takes hold of the iron ring and throws back the door. Producing a small flashlight, he aims it down
the hole. He sees a ladder directly beneath. As the man descends there is a soft rumble of approaching thunder.
ROOT CELLAR UNDER THE BARN
The flashlight beam reveals an old stone root cellar. Cobwebs shroud a few barrels, rubble and discarded lumber.
Otherwise, the cellar is empty and unused. The man crosses the earthen floor to a chamber at the far end, stopping at
a heavy steel door. With the flashlight held between his teeth he works a combination lock. Succeeding, he depresses
the lever. The door to the vault swings back, revealing a second door with set-in rows of narrow shelves. Various-sized
cases and velvet bags fill several of the shelves.
Expertly, the man searches for the hidden security camera inside the vault, and covers the lens with an empty bag.
Then he withdraws a small, familiar looking box from his pocket and places it on a shelf. Next, he withdraws a key ring
with multiple-sized rods. Selecting a long, sleek case, the man inserts a rod into the keyhole. After a moment the lock
clicks and he lifts the lid. Inside, cushioned against blue velvet, a dozen diamonds glitter.
"Payback time," says the man with a hiss.
Overhead a muffled clap of thunder is heard and his eyes lift uneasily.
OUTSIDE THE BARN - A SUMMER STORM
Rain is pelting down. Lightening illumines the exterior of a large, gray barn. Disengaging from the shadows, a slender
figure stalks alongside the wall, trying to peer in. Finding a loose board near the rear, he squeezes through.
INSIDE THE BARN
The thief emerges from the trap door, switching off his flashlight. The figure in the corner flattens himself against
the bales of hay, watching. Heavy breathing is audible as the larger man works to replace the camouflage of straw.
Suddenly thunder and lightening explode directly above and for a moment both men are clearly visible to each other.
Unnerved by the storm, the thief fails to see that he is being spied upon. Hastily he completes his task, then bolts for
the barn door, swinging one arm.
THE ROOT CELLAR - MINUTES LATER
A pair of legs in patched pants and old-fashioned leather shoes is descending the ladder. It is a blonde youth, barely
out of his teens. In one hand he holds a lantern aloft. He looks about the cellar, his expression wide-eyed and curious.
After a moment, he spots the steel door at the far end. Puzzled, he makes for it and examines the combination lock.
After playing with it, he tries the lever. It will not budge. Giving up, he surveys the area. The lantern throws into relief
the thief's footprints in the damp earth. Out of the corner of his eye something bright glints.
The young man bends down. Imbedded in a footprint is a small, perfectly formed piece of glass. He retrieves it and
dusts it off on his shirt. The glass is polished in the shape of a teardrop. As he holds it close to the lantern, it glimmers
with the colors of the rainbow.
EASTERN OHIO - INSIDE A GREYHOUND BUS - 3 WEEKS LATER - A.M.
Richard Kimble has a window seat on the bus and is watching the green cornfields and pastoral scenery roll by. The
cool haze of early morning has turned to muggy humidity. On his lap Kimble holds a folded map of Eastern Ohio. The
town of Haventown is circled in red. The drone of the bus is lulling. Kimble finds a comfortable position and tries to
catch some shut-eye. He soon drifts off to a happier time.
KIMBLE'S DREAM - BEFORE THE MURDER
Kimble is sitting at the dining room table at home. It is evening and Helen is sitting across from him. Between them
two candles flicker in the romantic darkness. Kimble's eyes gleam with love as they meet Helen's—she is so beautiful.
She is saying something, but Kimble can't make out the words. His smile transforms to a frown of frustration as he
struggles to understand her. He begins to perspire and his face glistens in the candlelight.
What is she saying? Kimble listens desperately. If only he could remember her words!
He gives up and at the exact moment he does, he hears Helen clearly say, "I wasn't snooping, for heaven's sake!" She
sets her wine glass down. "I was only looking for a pen. The letter was right there on his desk for anyone to see. But,
the way my father carried on, you'd have thought I'd uncovered a family skeleton!" She laughs, tucking a strand of
hair behind her ear. "I mean, I wouldn't have read the darned thing anyway. It was postmarked from some obscure
little village in Ohio. Hardly earth-shaking." She giggles sweetly, remembering, "Haventown."
Suddenly Helen is alone in the room and Kimble is outside the window looking in. Ben Charnquist appears behind her.
He flashes Kimble a vicious leer, then raises a baseball bat and brings it down...again and again. Kimble struggles to
open the window but the lock is jammed. He pounds his fists on the glass. It shatters into a thousand diamonds as
Kimble screams, "HELEN!"
INSIDE THE BUS
"Haventown!" calls the driver, as he steers the greyhound to a stop. Kimble awakens with a start, his face moist with
sweat. The place name had sounded vaguely familiar when he'd read it in the email from Chuck Brixius. Now, omi-
nously, he recollects why. Kimble looks about him, wondering if he has cried aloud in his sleep. The other passengers
seem not to have noticed, so he stands and pulls down his carry bag.
THE HAVENTOWN BUS STOP AND MAIN STREET
Kimble steps down from the bus and stretches his cramped legs. He begins to walk along the main street. There is
nothing remarkable about this country hamlet except for the presence of the Amish. Riding into town in their horse-
drawn buggies, dressed in plain clothing, bonnets and straw hats, they might be apparitions from another century.
Kimble stops outside a general store with several buggies hitched outside. A sign in the window says, "WE SELL
AMISH-MADE GOODS." Kimble wonders if this could be the store Brixius mentioned.
INSIDE THE GENERAL STORE
The door "pings" as Kimble enters. Tourists and Amish mingle equally in the aisles. A rack by the door displays
bonnets of various sizes. Kimble fingers one with a wistful, nostalgic smile. Further down he looks at children's toys,
handcrafted entirely of wood. There are hickory rocking chairs for sale next to triangular buggy reflectors. Around him
the Amish are speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch dialect. A heavily bearded man in suspenders is examining a natural
gas heater. In the kitchen-wares aisle two women in long aprons are comparing prices for canning supplies. The store
is a veritable cornucopia of farm implements. Kimble moves closer to the check-out counter.
Hoping to overhear something, he lingers at a well-stocked shelf of home remedies. There are books on herbal medi-
cine and do-it-yourself treatments for just about every ailment. He raises his eyebrows at a bottle labeled "Vim &
Vigor", which claims to build muscle strength. Beside it are sample jars of "Old Red Barn Salve", to be applied before
splitting wood. Curious, Kimble reads the ingredients.
"How can we help you today?" Kimble looks up to see the proprietor eyeing him from behind the counter. He takes a
jar of salve and goes to the check-out.
"Just this, for now," Kimble says, pulling out his wallet. "Can you recommend a place to stay around here?"
"Hotel, cabin, bed 'n breakfast? In town or out?" Asks the storekeeper automatically, ringing up Kimble's purchase.
"Uh...bed and breakfast...close to town," Kimble replies.
"You're in luck," the storekeeper says, and plucks a brochure from an assortment by the cash register. "Beachy's Bed
'N Breakfast. Take the first right out of town. It's the third farm down, can't miss it. Big barn with hex signs at the top
of the hill." He hands the brochure to Kimble, along with his purchase.
"Thanks," Kimble says, taking the bag.
A DUSTY COUNTRY ROAD - NOON
Kimble walks past fields where Amish men in straw hats are raking mown hay. The dirt road is narrow and rutted by
wagon wheels and horse shoes. Despite the late July sun baking down, Kimble is enjoying the peacefulness of the day
and does not mind being on foot.
As he nears the second white-frame farmhouse, he sees a family-sized station wagon parked in the gravel drive.
Several adults and youngsters are clustered around a roadside stand. A hand-lettered sign says "Freshly Baked Pies".
An Amish girl of about ten in a white apron and cap is minding the stand.
"What kind of pies do you have?" the father of the family asks.
"Peach, shoo-fly and Dutch apple," the girl answers." Her chubby younger sister, in a cornflower-blue dress, is run-
ning around the yard throwing sticks for a puppy to fetch.
"Mmm, these are still warm!" a grandmotherly woman observes. "Do you think one will be enough for all of us?"
"You're right, we'd better take two," the man's wife agrees. "And make the other peach."
Not having stopped for lunch, Kimble is now feeling hungry himself. He walks over to the stand. The family is return-
ing with their boxed pies to the car as he approaches. Besides pies, there are home-made preserves, pickles, relishes,
chow chow and cut flowers for sale. While Kimble is deciding, the station wagon backs out of the driveway. At that
moment, a red pick-up comes barreling down the lane. Seeing the pick-up, the driver of the station wagon tries to
reverse gears. The car stalls. A sudden flash of blue streaks across the lawn and Kimble's gaze shifts to the little Amish
girl. Her puppy has dashed out into the road and she is following at top speed. Her older sister screams. The pick-up
swerves to miss the station wagon, and clips the child sideways.
Kimble sprints across the road to the girl, who has been thrown into the ditch on the far side. The pick-up roars off at
full throttle, disappearing over the hill in a cloud of dust. The station wagon restarts and pulls back into the driveway.
The family emerges, shocked. Kimble lifts the little girl's head. She appears unconscious, but then bats her eyelids.
Kimble checks her limbs for fractures.
"Toby," she mumbles weakly.
"Rachel!" It is a piercing call, torn from a mother's heart. Kimble turns to see a woman in a brown dress, with honey-
colored hair under a small white head covering racing towards them. "Baby!" she cries, her eyes dark with fear. She
gathers the child into her arms.
"Toby...got runned over," Rachel tells her, beginning to sob.
"No, no, he did not! See—there he is under the tree, playing with the butterflies." Her speech has a lilting old German
accent. She croons, rocking Rachel in her lap and looking for traces of blood.
"I couldn't find any lacerations," Kimble says.
"Rachel, tell mother where you were hit," says the woman.
"I wasn't hit...I bumped myself. Then I felled d-down," the girl answers, her teeth chattering.
"Shock," says Kimble. "She may not be aware of what happened. We need to get her to a doctor."
"Does it hurt bad anywhere?" Rachel's mother asks practically.
Rachel shakes her head. "I feel cold." Her mother picks her up and heads back to the house. The other daughter joins
them, embracing her sister tearfully.
"I wanted to help, but I was afraid to go into the street," the older girl admits in a scared voice.
"You did the right thing, Esther," her mother says approvingly.
The station wagon family approaches, looking stricken.
"That guy in the pick-up drove away without even looking back!" one of the boys whispers.
"Is the little girl okay? Is there anything we can do?" asks the father.
"Does she need a doctor?" his wife wonders.
"No, she is fine, thanks to God," Rachel's mother says, brushing dirt from the child's face. "The children know not to
play in the street. Last month a neighbor boy was hit by a car and killed." She tosses her head disapprovingly. "So
much traffic these days."
Kimble scans the empty road.
"Well, if you're certain you don't need a lift to the doctor..." the father offers again.
"What for? She is only winded—no broken bones," the Amish woman replies happily, gently jiggling Rachel on her
hip.
"Right then. Back into the car, kids," he says.
"Remember to fasten your seat belts!" his wife cautions.
THE FARMHOUSE KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER
"Esther, go fetch Toby. And look both ways first!" Rachel's mother calls over her shoulder as she sets Rachel down in
a straight-backed chair. Kimble appears in the doorway, still concerned about the child, yet realizing the Amish do not
welcome outsiders into their homes. The large room is plain and utilitarian. Red geraniums brighten the windowsill
above the sink and a calendar of farm scenes hangs on the wall over the table. The air is hot and rich with the scent of
baking.
"Oh! My pies!" the woman exclaims, suddenly remembering them. She grabs a quilted potholder and throws open
the door of the massive wood stove. Quickly she pulls out four pies and sets them on racks to air. "Only a little
overdone," she observes, fanning the pies to cool them. Seeing Kimble she explains, "I bake every day to sell at
market. Except the Sabbath. My man passed away two years ago. Then we lost our eldest boy this Spring—we need
the income from the pies." She turns and pumps water to fill a glass for Rachel.
"Here, drink up, it will wash the dust down," she advises, combing the girl's hair back with her fingers and retying her
cap. "Are you thirsty?" she asks Kimble. "The water is from the well, cool and sweet."
"Yes...I am, thank you," Kimble says, coming in uncertainly. He accepts the glass she offers and takes a long drink.
Rachel chortles and spills some of hers. Kimble helps her set the glass down. She waves her chubby hands in the air as
if collecting sunbeams.
"Sparklies!" she announces, enchanted. "Sparkly butter-lights!"
Her mother smiles, cooling herself with a cold glass against her forehead. "There are no butterflies in here, silly one,"
she says.
Kimble pales. He stoops and looks up into Rachel's wide blue eyes, which so nearly match the color of her dress. "Do
you see flashing lights?" he asks her gravely.
She nods. Kimble covers one eye. "Do you see them now?" Rachel nods again. Her mother comes over.
"What is it?" she asks, a fresh note of alarm entering her voice.
Kimble covers the other eye. "And now?" Rachel pushes his hand away, annoyed. "I hope I'm wrong," Kimble says,
turning to the woman, "but a powerful blow like your daughter just received can cause retinal detachment."
"Look at me, Rachel," her mother commands, taking the child's face in both hands. She peers carefully into each eye.
"They seem clear," she tells Kimble in a relieved voice and returns to the sink to finish her washing up. "She's only
seeing stars. It will pass. We Amish do not believe in carrying medical insurance, so we cannot be running to the
doctor every time there is a small problem."
Esther enters with Toby, and Rachel is soon distracted by the antics of the puppy. Kimble stands—torn between
courteously taking his leave and courting the woman's anger by pressing his conviction that Rachel needs medical
attention.
"I don't believe she has 'a small problem'," he says at last. Seeing the woman's flinty expression, Kimble realizes that
nothing but the truth will have the power to convince her. "And I should know," he continues quietly, "I am a doctor."
A BUGGY ON THE ROAD - EARLY AFTERNOON
Kimble, Rachel and her mother are seated together in the front of the buggy, behind their chestnut carriage horse.
Methuselah, the horse, is getting on in years but is still much loved and sports a straw hat for protection from the sun.
Rachel, sitting between the adults, is playing happily with a cloth doll. In keeping with Amish tradition, it has no face.
"Thank you for coming with us, Doctor," her mother tells Kimble. "We have been to this specialist before, when my
husband caught a fish hook in the eye. But he is very English, and I find it difficult to converse with him easily. He does
not like to answer my questions!" She clucks to Methuselah, who seems uninspired to hurry in the sweltering after-
noon heat.
"Doctors can be like that," Kimble says with understanding.
Rachel holds out her doll to Kimble. He fingers the small blue bonnet.
"We used to vacation in Amish country when we were kids," he
relates. "My sister loved those bonnets. She made my Dad buy her
one and then she wore it everywhere for months."
The woman's eyes widen and she claps her hand to her head. "My
bonnet! First, I forget my pies, then I leave without my bonnet... I'll
be forgetting the way next! And I have not even given you my
name... It is Rebecca Yoder." She looks over at Kimble courteously,
but in accordance with Amish custom does not extend her hand.
"Richard." Kimble reveals his name before he can stop himself. There
is something about this woman, her spirit if not her looks, which
reminds him of Helen. "Waggoner," he finishes, seeing a hay wagon
sitting in the field.
Two cars approach from the rear and speed up, staring at the cur-
tained sides of the buggy and its occupants as they pass. Rebecca
ignores them.
The ride into town.
"Why is it you have no car, Dr. Waggoner?" she asks. "I thought all English drove cars!"
"I...I'm trying to spend more time in nature," Kimble answers lamely.
"Nature is the best healer," she responds with conviction. "I have lost four children, and sometimes nature is the only
solace."
"Four!" Kimble exclaims. Beside him Rachel grins and holds up four fingers.
"I am four," she shows him, pleased with her accomplishment.
"Good for you, Rachel," Rebecca says. Then to Kimble she adds, "Yes, there were
two miscarriages when I first married. I was afraid I might not be able to have
children. But then God gave us Isaac, our eldest...my husband's namesake." She
lapses into silence, remembering her recent loss. The rhythm of the steel wheels
is putting Rachel to sleep. She rests her head against her mother. "You mentioned
a fourth child," Kimble prompts.
Rebecca nods, a distant look on her face. "Our younger son, Amos. He was born
with a genetic disorder. Because Amish folk are descended from just a few fami-
lies, and we only marry within our own people, our children are more susceptible
to these diseases. He had glutaric aciduria...perhaps you have heard of it?"
Rebecca: "I thought all English
drove cars!"
"I've read about it. Glutaric aciduria results in motor paralysis," Kimble says, imag-
ining what the family must have gone through.
"We found out there was a problem with Amos when the children contracted chicken pox," Rebecca relates. "The
others made a complete recovery. Amos worsened. In time he could not even feed himself. Parents should love all
their children equally, Dr. Waggoner, as God does. But Amos was special." She sighs, encouraging the horse to take
the next hill. "Amos was a year older than Rachel when he died." Tears brim in Rebecca's eyes. "Today I thought I had
lost a fifth child."
Rachel is nodding against Kimble. Gently he puts an arm around the little girl. "I can see that she's made of strong
stuff...like her mother," he says softly. Rachel snuggles easily into his embrace—not yet wary of outsiders. "My wife
and I talked about having a child, but we never found the time," Kimble tells Rebecca. "She died not long ago."
"Then, you have no family of your own?" Rebecca asks, incredulous.
Kimble shakes his head. They have reached an intersection and Rebecca brings the buggy to a stop at the light. After
the long ride, traveling at a snail's pace, the traffic on the highway seems to be racing by. Rachel stirs and buries her
face into Kimble's gray work shirt to block out the din. Rebecca takes note, and a smile tugs at her mouth.
"The family is the center of our world," she declares emphatically. "We have large farms and it takes large families
to run them." She looks both ways then flicks the reins, and the horse clip clops across the intersection. Kimble hangs
onto the seat, relieved when they have made it to the other side.
"All this land is being bought up," she tells him. "That supermarket was once an Amish farm. My brother, Jacob, will
never sell Miller land! He is determined to keep everything in the family. He has the farm next to ours. When his first
son, John, marries next month the new bride and groom will come to live in our house. The farm will then be theirs."
"What will happen to you and the girls?" Kimble asks, wondering.
Rebecca answers in a tone of acceptance. "It is a big house. There is room for all of us. John's wife will be glad of the
extra help." Kimble senses that though she has resigned herself, Rebecca is not entirely happy with this arrangement.
A car honks loudly as it enters the left-hand lane . The hostile driver shouts obscenities at them, which thankfully
cannot be understood.
"I'm sorry," Kimble says, referring to the driver's behavior.
"It is for the best," Rebecca replies, mistaking his intention. "My father cannot manage the farm alone. He is aging.
His back gives him problems and that in turn gives him a short temper! He will need me there to care for him." She
looks at Kimble. "We believe it our duty—and privilege—to look after each another."
Rachel wakens and begins to take an interest in the colorful highway signs.
"You said you don't have medical insurance. How will you pay...if she requires surgery?" Kimble asks.
"There will be a collection taken from the members of our church," Rebecca explains. "But I hope you are wrong, Dr.
Waggoner, and it will not be necessary."
Kimble watches Rachel, who is tilting her head curiously to get a better vantage point from which to view the signs.
Perhaps, he worries, she is tipping her head in such a manner because she is steadily losing vision.
Tersely Kimble says, "You are not responsible for Rachel's accident, Mrs. Yoder. If anyone should pay, it is the driver of
the red pick-up!"
ALCINI'S PROPERTY - THE DRIVEWAY, FARMHOUSE AND BARN
A red pick-up, spraying dust from its wheels, pulls into the driveway of a poorly kept farmhouse. Behind the house is
a large gray barn, its tall doors padlocked. A man with a goatee and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail gets out of
the truck. Carrying a bag of groceries, he runs up the steps to the house.
ALCINI'S KITCHEN
The man throws his car keys on the table, sets the bag down and pulls out a chair. He sits down, propping his boot-
clad feet up. He wears Western style boots with pointed toes. Around his neck is a gold chain. Humming to himself,
the man begins to open his mail. As he reads, he rocks his head, keeping time to his interior music. Behind him the
countertop is littered with containers of milk, cereal boxes and beer cans. A few dishes and pans are stacked in the
sink, unwashed.
"Boss Man," he mutters, picking up a legal-sized envelope. He turns it over and slits it open with a long thumbnail.
He reads for a moment then protests. "More maintenance! Get someone else to be your handyman—I told you, I
don't do repairs."
He throws the letter down and goes to the counter, selecting a box of cereal. Then he opens the refrigerator. Except
for a case of beer, it is nearly empty. "Damn! Forgot the milk!" He makes a disgusted sound and takes out a can of
beer. Then he checks the cupboard and the sink. Unable to find a clean bowl, he pours some cereal directly into his
mouth and washes it down with the beer.
"Hmm," he says, testing the flavor. "Not too shabby!"
THE EXAMINING ROOM OF AN OPHTHALMOLOGIST'S OFFICE
Dr. Hathaway, a young and pleasant mannered man, sets Rachel down from her perch in the examining chair. Kimble
and Rebecca rise from their seats.
"Did I pass the test," the child asks?
Dr. Hathaway sits on the edge of the table beside a retinoscope. There are eye charts on the wall and a cutaway
model of the human eye on the cabinet behind him.
"You did a fine job," he assures her. "Now...how would you like to go to a real hospital and eat ice cream and meet
other children and play games?"
Rachel looks questioningly at her mother. "Do I have to?" she asks in a small voice.
"We caught it in time," Dr. Hathaway informs the adults. "The retina has not de-
tached. But it is torn and she'll need laser treatment. We don't have the facilities for
that here—we're only a small office. I'll arrange for you to be taken to the county
hospital. She'll receive treatment as soon as you arrive. Then, I'd like to keep her for
observation another day. If everything is well, and I'm sure it will be, Rachel can go
home tomorrow evening."
"An overnight?" Rebecca clearly had not anticipated this.
"Yes, it's best if she rests and stays out of harm's way for the next twenty-four hours.
She's had quite a shock."
Understanding a mother's fears, he adds, "You can stay by her side, Mrs. Yoder.
They'll put you up in the same room."
Rebecca turns to Rachel. "We are having so many adventures today," she says,
managing to smile enthusiastically. "Esther will want to hear all about it when we
get back home. Shall we go now and have some ice cream?"
Rachel nods her head and takes her mother's hand.
"Thank you so much, Dr. Hathaway," Rebecca says gratefully. Kimble shakes Hathaway's hand.
"Thank you for bringing her in as soon as you did," Dr. Hathaway tells them. "That was the smart thing to do. So
many people disregard the signs and don't have their eyes checked in time. Your concern has saved your child's
vision."
Esther: "Did I pass?"
WAITING ROOM LOUNGE - MOMENTS LATER
Kimble and Rebecca, with Rachel in tow, enter the small room and take seats together on the one empty couch.
Seeing the set of building blocks and jigsaw puzzle on the children's table, Rachel excuses herself and joins another
little girl at play there.
"You did not tell him you are a Doctor!" Rebecca whispers to Kimble.
"I'm on vacation," Kimble whispers back.
"But, he thought we were married!" she says, trying to keep her voice low.
"Why? Do I look Amish?" Kimble shoots back. Rebecca notices the curious stares they are receiving from the other
patients. She tucks her head down and says nothing.
"So...that's the 'English' doctor who was giving you all the trouble?" Kimble asks, enjoying teasing Rebecca, as he
once did Helen.
"No!" she hisses. "I have never seen this specialist before. He is new. He was very good with Rachel."
The receptionist opens her window and calls out, "Mrs. Branch? Dr. Hathaway will see you now." An elderly woman
gets up and goes into the doctor's office, accompanied by her husband.
Rebecca watches her daughter play. Occasionally, Rachel swipes at her eyes. "I feel ignorant," Rebecca confesses to
Kimble. "We Amish place emphasis on learning practical things, so our formal education stops after eighth grade. But
if I could, I would want to continue my schooling and learn more about conditions like retinal detachment...and
glutaric aciduria."
A wave of empathy washes over Kimble. "Why can't you?"
"That is not our way," she answers briefly.
"Perhaps you should make it your way," he counters.
The receptionist pokes her head out again. "Mrs. Yoder? The ambulance is here for you." She motions. "Just outside."
Rebecca collects Rachel. Kimble joins her and they step out into the parking area.
THE PARKING AREA
Seeing the shiny red and white ambulance, Rebecca claps her hand to her mouth, stopping stock still.
"What have you forgotten now?" Kimble asks, between worry and amusement.
"Methuselah!" Rebecca exclaims. As one, they turn to see the
horse hitched to a tree and waiting patiently with the buggy.
"How will they get home?" she asks in consternation.
THE ROAD HOME - 5:15 P.M.
Kimble is returning alone in the buggy. He approaches the intersection with trepidation. It is rush hour and the traffic
is much heavier than it had been earlier. He clucks and gives a flip of the reins, as he had seen Rebecca do. Methuselah
picks up his hooves and the buggy sways across the intersection, flanked by the roar of engines.
Relief on his face, Kimble guides the horse to the far right so that traffic can pass. His gaze shifts to the string of fast
food establishments. He is feeling the effects of having had
next to nothing to eat or drink all day.
Making up his mind, Kimble pulls off the highway into a McDonald's and gets in line behind a Lexus. A Subaru pulls
in after him. While they wait, Methuselah takes some nips out of the bushes as a reminder that he has not been fed
yet. The Lexus edges forward. After a few tries, Kimble successfully directs the buggy up to the menu board.
"May I take your order please?" crackles a voice over the speaker.
"A Big Mac, jumbo fries and a large Coke," Kimble requests.
"I can't hear you, sir," the voice replies.
"A Big Mac, jumbo fries and a large Coke!" Kimble shouts, bending down to the level of the speaker. His eyes meet the
surprised faces of the occupants in the line of cars waiting to order. Embarrassed, he retreats to the shelter of the
buggy's curtained sides.
At the drive-up window Kimble pays for his order.
"Here's your change," the young cashier says, grinning. "We don't get too many Amish customers—enjoy your meal!"
Kimble blinks in amazement that he has been mistaken for Amish twice in one afternoon.
THE MILLER FARM - EARLY EVENING
The summer sun is low on the horizon as the buggy draws near the
Miller farm. Methuselah is straining at the bit to get back to the barn
and his feed. They turn up the gravel drive. The windows in the house
are open and soft lantern light spills out onto the lawn. Recognizing
the familiar sound of the horse and carriage returning, the men folk
come to the front door.
A heavily bearded older man comes down the steps, walking with a
slight stoop. He is clearly stunned to see Kimble behind the reins.
Following him is a sharp featured middle-aged man with a ginger col-
ored beard, whom Kimble rightly guesses to be Rebecca's older brother,
Jacob. Standing alone in the doorway is a clean-shaven blond man in
his twenties.
Jacob takes the reins from Kimble. "What has happened to Rebecca
and Rachel?" he asks with alarm.
Kimble steps down from the buggy. "They're alright—Mrs. Yoder has
gone with Rachel to the county hospital. Rachel's vision was affected
by the accident and she is receiving treatment there."
The older man presses close as if to hear better. His eyebrows are
drawn together and his shaggy beard trembles.
The Miller farm after haying.
"The prognosis is excellent," Kimble continues. "They will be ready to come home tomorrow evening. Your grand-
daughter will see again just fine," he tells the older Mr. Miller.
"Who are you?" Mr. Miller demands in a heavy, guttural accent. He turns to Jacob. "Who is this Englisher?"
"Richard Waggoner," Kimble says, extending his hand and then withdrawing it as he realizes the gesture is an impo-
sition. "I was on my way to Beachy's Bed 'N Breakfast up the hill, when the accident occurred."
Mr. Miller begins to speak in heated Pennsylvania Dutch to Jacob. He waves off in the direction beyond their cluster of
farm buildings. Kimble senses that his presence has somehow riled the old man.
"What does it matter, Father?" Jacob says, trying to calm his parent down. "Mr. Waggoner had nothing to do with the
accident. He has done us a great service." To Kimble, Jacob says, "Please understand. We have had some troubles
here lately. My second son, Daniel, has disappeared and my Father blames it on an English neighbor whose property
borders ours. He believes you are in some way connected with this man. I've tried to explain." Jacob shrugs his
shoulders. "I will take care of the horse, Father," he says, leading Methuselah off to the barn. Mr. Miller follows,
conversing angrily at his son's side.
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Waggoner," the young man in the doorway says cordially, coming out onto the lawn.
"Don't mind my grandfather. He barks at us, too."
"Are you John?" Kimble inquires. The young man nods. "Would you tell your Aunt, when you see her, that I'll be just
up the road...in case she should need anything?"
"Of course," John says agreeably. "I will be the one to fetch them from the hospital tomorrow."
Kimble sees in the young man's open manner a chance to find out something that might lead to Charnquist. "I'm
sorry about your brother," he says.
John skims the grass with a bare foot. "Daniel left a couple weeks ago without a word to anyone. My father blames it
on rumm-shpringa." He makes a disbelieving sound in his throat.
"Rum what?" Kimble asks.
"Ah...that's like the English expression, 'sowing his wild oats'," John clarifies. "He thinks my brother has run off after
an English girl. But I know better. Daniel was secretly courting a girl from a good Amish family." He plucks at his
suspenders, shaking his head. "I've told my father this, but he won't listen to me." Kimble suspects that the young
man is looking for an ally.
He checks his watch. "It's almost eight and I have to get a room at the B & B," he says. "But I'll come by again to see
how Rachel's doing. She's a brave little kid." Noticing Esther watching from the kitchen sink, Kimble gives her a
thumb's up. She smiles shyly, and moves away from the window. "Take care, John," Kimble says with a wave.
"Nice meeting you, Mr. Waggoner," John replies, watching Kimble depart in the gathering dusk.
BEACHY'S BED 'N BREAKFAST - KIMBLE'S ROOM - 8:45 P.M.
Kimble lies on a double bed, his hands behind his head, reviewing the day's events. The bed is covered with a white
quilt in an Amish star pattern. On the nightstand is a telephone, and a lamp designed to look like a lantern. A
television sits inside an armoire. Spare Amish furnishings fill out the room creating the aura, if not the fact, of
authenticity.
From the window Kimble has a view of the Miller farm. There are no phone lines there, no electric lights. He sits up
and goes over to the window to study the darkening landscape. He focuses in on the far row of trees where the roof
of another barn indicates the end of the Miller property. His eyes narrow.
FIELDS BEHIND THE MILLER FARM - DAWN
Emerald green hills blend into the misty horizon. A massive orange sun is just cresting the
earth. Kimble walks over the roller coaster-like fields behind Beachy's Bed 'N Breakfast,
intent on his purpose. Windrows of raked hay stretch all the way back from the Miller
farmhouse to the far row of trees he is heading for. The distance is further than he esti-
mated. The hot orb of the sun is above the tree line by the time Kimble gets there.
The trees hide a muddy creek. Kimble scrambles down one side and up the other.
ALCINI'S PROPERTY
The morning is quiet except for the buzzing of bees. No one is about here. The hay has
not been cut and there are no animals out grazing. The property itself is small and has the
air of being abandoned. Kimble is looking at a large gray barn in need of repairs and a
similarly kept farmhouse. His eye is attracted to the red pick-up in the driveway.
Kimble moves closer, hugging the rear of the barn to keep out of sight. He discovers a loose board which, with some
prying, he is able to lift and squeeze past into the barn.
INTERIOR OF ALCINI'S BARN
Kimble pokes around in the dimness of the barn. He sees rusted farm machinery, old tires and musty bales of hay. He
stifles a sneeze. There appears to be nothing out of the ordinary. Then he hears a door slam and an engine start. He
peers out through a gap in the boards and sees the pick-up gun out of the driveway. He waits until the truck is gone
from sight.
OUTSIDE ALCINI'S FARMHOUSE
Kimble skirts the house, noticing a stump littered with beer cans which have evidently been used for target practice.
Cautiously he looks in at the windows. No one appears to be at home. He tries a window. It is locked. He goes around
to the back and sees one lower window slightly ajar. Kimble removes the screen. After a stubborn moment, he gets
the sash to lift and he hoists himself inside.
ALCINI'S BEDROOM
Kimble notes the unmade bed and jumble of clothes on the floor. Quickly he rifles through the bureau drawers and
checks the closet. He scans the room to see if there is something he might have missed. He listens at the door, then
opens it. A long hallway leads to the front of the house and the kitchen.
ALCINI'S KITCHEN
Kimble enters the kitchen. The wallpaper is stained and the paint on the cabinets beginning to peel. He walks past the
counter, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell coming from the sink. Next his gaze falls on the kitchen table. The
owner has been reading his mail and it is still lying about. Eagerly Kimble sorts through it, tossing the junk mail
addressed to "Occupant", and examining several bills for a Perry Alcini. Then he spots a legal-sized envelope with no
return address.
Kimble removes the letter and sits down, reading with concentration. The letter requests the performance of various
maintenance jobs. At the bottom, it is signed with the initials MR in large, flowing handwriting.
FLASHBACK
Instantly Kimble flashes back to his father-in-law's study at the Ross estate. In his mind's eye he sees Matthew Ross
initialing memos to the serving staff with a bold hand. The signature, MR, is the same.
ALCINI'S KITCHEN
Kimble bends over with grief, holding his head in his hands.
THE MILLER FIELDS - A HALF HOUR LATER
Kimble is emerging from the muddy creek on the Miller side of the property line. As he gains the high ground, he
looks up, startled, to see John Miller, his shirt sleeves rolled up, waiting to confront him.
"My grandfather was right! You do know this man, Alcini!" John accuses.
"You have it wrong, John," Kimble says, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
I mean you no harm," John says, realizing Kimble thought otherwise. "We practice non-resistance."
"I want Alcini brought to justice! I think he may be involved with the people who killed my wife," Kimble explains
John's eyes grow huge as the implication hits home. "Are you saying my brother may have been killed by this man?"
His face reddens and he begins to breathe heavily. He removes his straw hat and swats it hard against his leg. "No...No!"
he cries, agonized.
Kimble grabs him. "We don't know that yet. But if we're to find out what really happened, I'll need your help."
"You have it. Anything!" John says passionately.
Kimble releases him. "Have you seen a man in town, an 'English' man, with one arm?" he asks.
"No, there's been no one like that here." John says.
The two men begin to walk back across the fields.
Kimble frowns in thought. "Tell me about Alcini."
"He bought the old Zook place a few years back. Then he just let it run to seed. My grandfather can't stand him. He
tears up and down the back roads. We're certain it was his pick-up that hit Rachel. But how can we prove it? No one
was there to get the license number." John's shoulder's heave with the depth of his frustration.
"Did Alcini and Daniel spend much time together?" Kimble pursues.
"He never said." John runs a hand through his thick blond hair. "I saw my brother head over to Alcini's property a few
times at night after chores. He was always curious...about everything. It's only natural that he would want to under-
stand more about the outside world," John argues in his brother's defense. "I also did my share of exploration before
choosing to be baptized in the church. You see, Mr. Waggoner..."
"Richard," Kimble interjects.
"Richard. We Amish are not christened or baptized as children. We believe we should be free to make that decision
when we can better understand the importance of it. Daniel was of the age to question and he was looking for
answers. A man like Alcini represents the antithesis of our Amish beliefs. Daniel was intrigued by him. He told me he
couldn't understand how anyone could live like that—all alone, never working, letting his farm go to ruin. It was a
riddle to Daniel, and he felt compelled to solve it." John pauses, coming to grips with the possibility that Daniel's
curiosity may have caused his death.
"You said that Daniel was courting someone," Kimble prods, trying to put together the pieces of his own puzzle.
"Yes, he was seeing Sarah Stutzman." John responds. "But her parents don't know about it. They have another boy in
mind for her."
"Is there any way I could talk to her?"
"Tomorrow, Sunday, after church. Everyone will be at fellowship. That would be the best time," John says. "Sarah
would not be missed if she left early. There's a covered bridge
beyond Beachy's. It is popular for lover's trysts. If you can arrange to be there, I'll bring Sarah in the buggy. But we can
only talk for a short while. Her parents will be most upset if they find out their daughter has been speaking with an
Englisher...and on the Sabbath!"
"Thanks, John. I'll be there," Kimble says appreciatively. "What time?"
"We don't wear watches," John says. "Just approximate."
In the near distance Jacob, his two younger sons, and the elder Mr. Miller are baling hay.
"I'd better be going, Richard," John says. "I saw you walking over to Alcini's this morning and when you didn't come
back, I told my folks that I thought I saw one of our cows up by the creek." He grins. "They know by now the cow I
went to fetch was you!"
THE KITCHEN GARDEN OF THE MILLER FARMHOUSE
Bright flowers fill the beds around the farmhouse. Rows of vegetables ripen in the kitchen garden. Kimble, on his way
back to Beachy's, sees Esther out working by herself in the garden.
He slows his pace.
"How's it coming, Esther?" he asks cheerfully.
She smiles shyly, holding out an apron full of green beans. "They're ready for canning...but there's no one home
today."
With a pang Kimble realizes that, with Rebecca gone, the running of the house and its many chores has fallen onto
Esther's small shoulders. "I see," he says. "Could you use a hand?"
Esther says solemnly, "Gardening is women's work."
"Oh. Well, I'd be happy to do some 'men's work', then," Kimble offers, half-joking.
"Over there." Esther points to the woodpile by the fence. A large stack of logs waits to be cut to size for the wood
stove. Kimble stares at it, then chuckles.
"Well, I guess I'm equipped for it," he says and pulls from his pocket the jar of Old Red Barn Salve.
Rubbing some salve liberally on his hands, Kimble picks up the axe and positions a log on the cutting surface of a big
tree stump. He practices, then swings the axe. The log pirouettes off the stump and into the grass. "Strike one,"
Kimble says.
Esther momentarily forgets her chores as she watches, bemused.
Kimble tries again, and this time the axe flies out of his grip. "Too much salve, I think," he says. "Strike two!" He rubs
his hands on his jeans and picks up the axe for another swing. "This will do it, I'm getting the hang of it."
Esther tries politely not to giggle too loudly.
Kimble brings the axe down perfectly and the log splits neatly in two. "There! What did I tell you?" Kimble says
proudly.
"You have to do it again," Esther tells him.
"What?"
"You only cut it in half. You have to cut it in quarters or it won't fit inside the stove," she instructs.
"Un, huh." Kimble takes a deep breath. He surveys the woodpile again, calculating how many hours this will require.
"No problem! I'm up for it."
Esther bites her lip to repress the laughter that is getting away from her.
A COVERED BRIDGE - SUNDAY AFTERNOON
A buggy approaches the covered bridge. John is driving and
beside him sits a young woman in a deep teal-colored dress
and black bonnet. The buggy slows as it enters the bridge.
Kimble has been waiting under the nearby trees. He runs out
and greets them. John brings the horse to a stop. The shelter-
ing shade of the bridge provides ample privacy for their conversation.
"Sorry, if we kept you waiting," John says, speaking quickly.
"Sarah, this is Richard Waggoner, the man I told you about."
"Hello," Sarah says softly, not quite meeting Kimble's eyes. She
is in her late teens and clearly uncomfortable to be here.
"Sarah, before Daniel disappeared, did he speak to you about a
neighbor of ours named Alcini?" John asks, trying not to get his
hopes up.
"Only that he didn't like him." Sarah answers timidly.
"Do you remember anything unusual happening just before Daniel left?" Kimble prods.
Sarah begins to weep quietly. "Daniel asked me to marry him," she says.
This is news to John. "Now I know my brother didn't leave of his own accord!" he asserts.
"He gave me a beautiful teardrop as a token. But I wouldn't accept it," Sarah says regretfully.
Kimble looks at John questioningly, but John shakes his head, equally baffled.
She puts her hands over her face. "I didn't want my father to think Daniel was worldly—because then he would have
objected to a marriage."
Kimble backtracks. "This teardrop—what was it, exactly?"
"I don't know...a gemstone, maybe a crystal," Sarah says.
"Did he get it from Alcini?" John asks.
"He didn't say. But he confided in me that Alcini is hiding something in his barn." Both men perk up at this statement.
"Where?" they demand simultaneously.
"Under the hay. There's a trap door to the root cellar. Daniel found a locked safe there. He said it was built into a little
room, big enough to stand up in."
"Do you think Alcini could be hiding stolen gems?" John asks Kimble, astonished.
"Or smuggled ones. Either way, if Daniel found out, his life would be in danger," Kimble says grimly, fearing the worst.
Sarah hugs her arms around herself. "In my heart, I knew it! Something terrible has happened to him!"
Another buggy appears at the top of the hill.
"We'd better leave," Sarah tells John anxiously.
The meeting at the covered bridge
"Richard, I must inform my father about this," John says. "Then perhaps he will see the sheriff and something will be
done! Would you come to my Aunt's tonight and back me up?"
"You can count on it," Kimble confirms. "When?"
"John, we must go!" Sarah implores, watching the progress of the other buggy.
"Come before dark." John urges the horse forward and the buggy exits out the far end of the bridge.
Kimble runs in the same direction, plunging down into the creek
bed as the other buggy enters the covered bridge. Its steel
wheels rattle hollowly as it passes above Kimble.
THE MILLER KITCHEN - SUNDAY - EARLY EVENING
The entire Miller family is gathered around the large table. The elder Mr. Miller is seated at one end, head bowed in
prayer. Rebecca sits to his right, beside Rachel and Esther. Jacob and his wife are opposite with their younger boys.
John is at the other end of the table. The family has just finished giving thanks for Rachel's successful treatment.
They raise their heads and tuck into a hearty spread. Rebecca has prepared beef and noodles, mashed potatoes and
gravy, chicken and vegetables over homemade biscuits, a huge bowl of green beans, beets, cole-slaw, pickled cauli-
flower, applesauce and freshly baked bread and butter.
Amid praises for the delicious fare, John keeps his eyes peeled on the road. He spots Kimble on his way.
"Father, I've invited Mr. Waggoner to join us for dinner," John announces.
A hush greets this sudden statement.
"Since when do you ask an Englisher to my house and table?" explodes the older Mr. Miller.
"He saved Rachel's vision," Rebecca reminds her parent. "Surely we can share a meal with him in return."
"He did bring the horse and carriage back safely," Jacob observes.
"He chopped all the wood in the woodpile," Esther pipes up helpfully.
"So—this makes him one of the family?" the old man thunders back. He leans over to look out the window and sees
Kimble coming up the drive. "I forbid it!"
John gets up and goes to the door. "He's my guest. Please...make him welcome. Hello, Richard!" he calls.
"Already it is 'Richard'?" John's mother observes dubiously to her husband.
"We were just sitting down to eat," John tells Kimble as he enters.
"Thank you all very much for having me," Kimble responds graciously. There is a general murmur of welcome, though
Rebecca's father sets his jaw and says nothing. John pulls up a chair for Kimble beside Esther, who smiles and shifts to
make room. Rebecca quickly adds an extra place setting. Rachel has climbed down from her chair to give Kimble her
doll and to thank him personally with a wet kiss.
"Rachel, Cum Essa! Come eat," Rebecca commands, lifting the child back into her chair. "You can play later."
The table is unusually quiet as dishes are passed to Kimble and he heaps his plate. Kimble is aware of the family's
uneasiness and glances at John.
"Over dessert," John says, under his breath.
AFTER THE MEAL
Conversation has cautiously resumed. Rebecca and Esther are clearing the table to make room for dessert.
"My sister tells me you are a doctor," Jacob says to Kimble.
"Yes, Pediatrics," Kimble replies briefly, not eager to provide details.
"Did you know that, as a little girl, Rebecca wanted to be a doctor when she grew up?" Jacob laughs.
Kimble looks at Rebecca as she sets a dessert plate in front of him. "No, I didn't know that."
"Of course she was too young to understand that the important tasks for a wife lie at home." Jacob adds. Kimble
studies the tablecloth.
Rachel generously passes her spoon to Kimble. "For pudding!" she whispers.
Kimble already has a spoon, but recognizes the child's affectionate gesture with a whispered "Thank you!" She beams
happily.
Esther sets down a large bowl of cracker pudding. John heaps pudding into his dish to steel himself for the task at
hand. Rebecca returns with a chocolate layer cake. Kimble's eyebrows rise at the size of the portions she is cutting.
"Now!" says John in a low voice to Kimble. The young man stands, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I have news
about Daniel."
There is instant silence in the room. "It's not good," John tells them. "Mr. Waggoner knows these people Alcini is
involved with...and he feels they could be responsible for Daniel's disappearance."
John's grandfather slaps his hands on his knees and retorts loudly in Pennsylvania Dutch.
"Let me explain first," John pleads.
"Father, we all need to hear this," Jacob says to the old man. "Continue, John."
"Daniel may have taken something of value, a jewel, from Alcini." John goes on.
"What would my son want with jewelry?" Daniel's mother asks dismissively.
"He was courting Sarah Stutzman, and gave it to her as a token." John relates.
"No! I won't believe it!" Mrs. Miller protests. "Jacob?" She calls on her husband for support.
Jacob looks down, guiltily. "I knew, but I thought it best to wait until Daniel's return and let him speak for himself."
"Father...I don't think Daniel is coming back." John says in a strained voice. His parents faces turn ashen.
Seeing the looks of horror around the table, Rebecca says, "Do we know any of this for certain? If no one has proof, we
are simply making accusations about our neighbor."
This is greeted with a clamor of opinions. The kitchen rings with voices speaking simultaneously. John touches Kimble's
shoulder and the two men quietly leave the room.
THE MILLER DRIVEWAY -TWILIGHT
The two men come down the front steps. It is growing dark.
"My aunt is right! We have to find out the truth. I'm going over to Alcini's now and confront him," John says rashly to
Kimble. "We have waited long enough!"
"Whoa!" Kimble says, restraining the young man. "There's no point in getting all fired up. Alcini may not even be
there. And if he is, chances are good he'll have a gun."
"Well, so do I," John says and stalks off to the barn. In a moment he returns with a shotgun.
"Is that yours?" Kimble asks, concerned.
"My father's. Same thing," John answers tersely. He heads to his family's buggy and unties the horse, bringing him
around with the carriage.
"Alcini won't think twice about shooting, but I know you would." Kimble argues. "You believe in non-violence!"
"Non-resistance. Are you coming?" he asks impatiently, climbing up to the seat.
Seeing John is in no mood to be reasoned with, and fearing for his safety if he goes alone, Kimble hops up beside him.
John slaps the reins across the horse's backside and the buggy lurches forward. This horse is considerably younger
than Methuselah, and in another minute they have left the Miller farm behind. Kimble takes a long backward glance
at the house as it recedes.
ALCINI'S DRIVEWAY, HOUSE AND BARN - NIGHT
Kimble and John approach softly on foot with night as their cover. The pick-up is in the drive and lights are on in the
house. By mutual consent they make for the barn.
"How do you plan to see without a lantern?" Kimble asks.
"There's a moon, and we can feel our way," John answers. "I want to find that safe!" He goes up to the barn door and
slides it open. Kimble follows reluctantly.
INSIDE ALCINI'S BARN
The moon casts strange shadows over the farm machinery inside the barn. It is as though they are being watched.
After a moment their eyes adjust to the gloom and they see the bales of hay at the back.
"The trapdoor could be anywhere," says John. "We'll just have to move the bales one by one. You take that end,
I'll start over here."
The men separate and begin to work, groping in the dark for any sign of an opening in the floor.
All at once light streams out from beneath as the trapdoor is thrown wide and Alcini appears, coming up the ladder
with a flashlight.
"What the hell...more Amish?" Alcini snarls, seeing one on either side of him. He whips out his gun and steps clear of
the door.
Up close for the first time to the sinister 'Englisher' in a ponytail, John freezes.
"John! Toss the gun!" Kimble shouts, holding out his hands for it.
Alcini turns and fires on Kimble. A bright red stain sprouts from Kimble's shoulder, catalyzing John into action. He lifts
the barrel of the shotgun.
"I plan to shoot and you're in my way!" he warns Alcini.
"You're crazy. Both of you!" Alcini says. "What are you doing in my barn? I can have the cops on you in five minutes."
Kimble sees a cell phone tucked into Alcini's pocket.
"Good—we'll wait," John says. "And then you can explain to them what you have in your root cellar!"
"No, John, let it be!" Kimble says, afraid John will tip his hand about the jewels and give Alcini cause to finish them
both.
"What," Alcini says slowly. "What do I have in my root cellar?"
"My dead brother!" John shouts back, suspecting the truth about the little room below. He cocks his shotgun.
Kimble launches himself at Alcini before he can fire at John. As he tackles the wiry man to the floor, both guns go off
simultaneously.
"Are you hurt?" Kimble cries to John, keeping Alcini pinned down.
"No... But, God help me, I have killed a man," John says, devastated.
Beneath him, Kimble feels Alcini slump. He sits back and sees the flashlight on the floor, still gripped in Alcini's hand.
Beside it a dark pool of blood is spreading.
John kneels down beside them. "I wasn't aiming for him, Richard. I was aiming at the hay... He fell into my line of
fire." John drops the shotgun, overcome with emotion.
Alcini's eyelids are fluttering. Kimble checks his pulse. It is weak and erratic.
"He's not going to make it," Kimble says, taking off his shirt and using it to staunch the bleeding. Alcini coughs.
Kimble holds the man's head so he can breathe. "Was it Ross?" he asks Alcini desperately.
"The boy...had one...on him," Alcini gasps. "But he...wouldn't give me... the others."
Kimble and John hold their breaths, hoping for a confession.
"I...had no...choice," Alcini finishes. He groans in pain. Blood oozes from under Kimble's hand.
"I need your shirt," Kimble instructs John. He takes it and applies it to the wound with pressure.
Alcini rolls his eyes. "Ross's...diamonds," he rasps and jerks into rigidity.
Kimble's eyes mist. He holds Alcini's limp body.
"Shouldn't we call somebody? An ambulance? The sheriff?" John says, when he can trust himself to speak again.
"You do that," Kimble says lifelessly. After a moment he cushions Alcini's body and forces himself to his feet. "John, I
can't be here."
"Because they're after you, too? The people behind this?" John asks, swift to catch on.
Kimble nods. His hands and arms are covered with blood.
"Then God would expect me to put your needs first," John says and hurries Kimble from the barn.
A COVERED BRIDGE-THAT EVENING
Rebecca is driving John's buggy. She brings the horse to a halt inside the covered bridge and turns to Kimble. The
glow of the buggy lamps reflects off the walls of the bridge and gives her face a golden sheen beneath her bonnet.
"Now—let me look at that wound," she instructs. Kimble shows her his shoulder. Rebecca opens her bag and pulls out
a length of gauze, some cloths for cleaning, witch hazel and iodine. Efficiently she begins to scrub away the blood.
Then she opens and cleans the wound.
Kimble makes a small sound.
"It is only a flesh wound," she says. "The bullet did not lodge." She continues to clean his arms and hands where the
blood has caked.
"You'd be a good doctor," Kimble observes. "I bet you could pass a GED."
"What is that?" she asks, unrolling the gauze.
"A high school equivalency test. And then it wouldn't take long to study for your LPN."
Rebecca tilts her head. "Are you teasing me again?"
"No, you could be a Licensed Practical Nurse."
She stops. "Dr. Waggoner...there is a diagnostic clinic due to open here next year for genetic diseases." Rebecca looks
down, forming her thoughts. She raises her eyes to him. "Do you think I would have a chance...I mean, would they
want me working part-time for them?"
Kimble smiles broadly. "I'm certain of it."
Energetically Rebecca wraps the gauze around his wound. "Then I will set my will to it until the church sees the good
sense of one of our own helping our own!" Her eyes glint with determination.
"If anyone can do it, Rebecca, I believe that you can," Kimble says with open admiration.
Rebecca pulls a clean shirt from the bag. "Put this on," she says. "It was my husband's, but I think you have earned it."
She packs up the medical supplies. "We will make a short stop at Beachy's for your things. Then we will ride until we
reach the county line. No one will be interested in an Amish couple returning home late on a Sunday evening. Here,
you'll need a hat." She gives him John's which was left in the buggy. "Yes...very plain," Rebecca admits, studying
Kimble in his new clothes.
They ride out of the bridge at a brisk pace, the wind in their faces.
"And what about John?" Kimble asks, holding onto the seat.
"Oh, with Methuselah pulling our buggy, I imagine he won't reach the sheriff's office until midnight!" Rebecca replies
spiritedly.
CHICAGO - THE HUME RESIDENCE - DAY
Maggie Kimble Hume is resting in bed when the doorbell rings. Looking out the window, she sees a UPS van parked
at the curb. Walking slowly, she goes to the door to sign for the package. Her daughter, Emily runs up, interested.
"I need you to sign here," the driver says, handing her the pen.
"What is it, Mommy?" Emily asks.
"I don't know, honey." Maggie says. "Thank you," she tells the driver, taking the box. She brings it into the living
room and sets it down on the coffee table. "Could you hand Mommy those scissors, please," she asks Emily. "Remem-
ber to hold them with the pointy side facing away. That's right." She takes the scissors and opens the package.
Inside is an adult-sized cornflower blue bonnet. Maggie lifts it out carefully. "Oh, my gosh!" she says, remembering.
"A doll, a doll! Is it for me?" squeals Emily, pulling out a doll just like Rachel's. She hugs it to herself.
"Yes, I'm sure it is, honey," Maggie says. "And there's a little wooden buggy here for Stuart. He'll love that." She
fishes inside for a note, then sees one is pinned to the bonnet.
"Don't lose the memories," she reads. "I. M. Superior." Maggie goes over to the hall mirror and puts the bonnet on,
tying it in a bow at her neck. Her eyes take on the bright sparkle of girlhood.
THE ROSS ESTATE - MATTHEW ROSS'S PRIVATE
STUDY - EVENING
The lights in the expensively designed room are turned down low.
Matthew Ross is alone at his desk, the expression on his face sour as
he works. The phone rings. Ross picks up automatically.
"Ross here," he says gruffly.
"I hear you have an interest in diamonds."
Ross looks puzzled and says angrily, "Who is this?"
"Your son-in-law," answers Kimble.
"You son of a b..., how dare you call me?" Ross says, raising his
voice.
"You won't get away with it. The police have found Alcini's vault
and it's only a matter of time before they link the contents to
you...and your friends." Kimble informs him.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Ross shouts, enraged.
Kimble delivers his message: "I hold you accountable for the death of an innocent young man and for the murder of
your own daughter."
Ross's fury is unleashed. "How was I to know that they would try to kidnap..." Realizing he has said too much, Helen's
father hangs up on Kimble.
Fingers trembling, Ross opens a locked drawer and removes a small packet. He empties the contents into his palm and
balls his fist.
On the wall across from the desk is a portrait of Helen. Ross's eyes are wet as he stares at the picture. The lamplight
reflecting from their watery surface is the only indication that real feelings might lie below his cold exterior. Ross
shifts his gaze to the fist upon the shiny oak desk. His expression changes from bitterness to deep grief and regret.
The moisture in one of his eyes wells and he bows his head. The camera closes in on a tear as it falls. In it's brief
descent to the desk, it captures the lamplight and glitters at the same moment that Ross opens his balled hand.
Lying at the center of his palm is a single diamond, in the shape of a teardrop.
THE END