Overture
It was a heap of splintered gray wood and torn black canvas. The only recognizable object in the debris by the side of the road was a woman in a dark purple dress, face down, lying to one side of the heap, her hair splattered with blood already soaking through a white bonnet. Off in the field of early, foot-high corn, a horse shrieked, its cry rolling wildly over the neat rows and across the long stream of cars moving slowly along the two-lane road.
Andy and Beth Simpson had left New York City three hours earlier, escaping through a Friday morning, planning to spend this early spring weekend in the “Amish country” of Lancaster County. They were inching along the Old Philadelphia Pike—the link to Lancaster before the newer, wider Route 30 tore Lancaster County in two.
“My God,” Beth said, “I can’t look at that. What is it?”
“I think it’s one of those Amish buggies,” Andy said.
“Something must have hit it. Looks like it’s made of tinder.”
“That poor woman.”
“She has to be dead,” Andy said.
As they moved slowly past the accident, Andy rolled down his window and heard two rescue workers talking.
“The man’s over in the field,” one said.
“Must’ve been thrown fifty feet,” the other said.
Someone covered the woman with a coat.
Meanwhile, the horse in the field continued to bolt wildly, staggering on a crumpled leg, its screams streaking the air, shrieks of pain and fear piercing the rescuers, the bystanders, the motorists, Andy and Beth. The men did not even attempt to catch it.
Beth began to shake . . .