An hour later I’m southbound on County Road 24 northwest of Coshocton. On my right a cornfield stretches west to a precipitous hill and runs alongside the road. I descend a hill, cross a small creek, and the cornfield gives way to pastureland. A quarter mile past the creek, I come upon a wooded area of new-growth saplings and brush and small trees—nature reclaiming what’s rightfully hers.

According to my GPS, Hewitt Hog Producers is on the right, dead ahead. I descend another hill and enter bottomland. The foliage thickens. Mature trees encroach, casting me in shadow. I’m looking for a sign or mailbox, an overgrown driveway or lane on the right. I’ve just crossed the creek for the third time when a barely visible path to the left snags my attention. I hit the brakes hard enough to lock up my shoulder harness.

I make the turn onto an overgrown lane. The Crown Vic bumps over old ruts and dry mud holes. Tree branches and scrub scratch the doors as I squeeze the vehicle through the cavelike entrance. A hundred yards in, the trees open to what had once been a large gravel lot. A huge metal building juts from the earth like primitive ruins. Streaks of rust the color of old blood give the building the look of a felled beast. Silos punctuate each end of the building.

I park in an open area, well away from hip-high weeds that could be concealing holes or snakes or God only knows what. I’m about to call Glock to let him know the map had it wrong, when I hear the crunch of tires. I glance toward the entrance to see his cruiser pull in. He parks behind my Crown Vic. I get out and retrieve the canvas bag in which I packed a couple of hand spades and a folding shovel.

I reach Glock as he’s opening his trunk. “Hey, Chief.”

“Any problem finding the place?” I ask.

“Naw.” He lifts the first metal detector and leans it against the bumper. “Only drove by it four times.”

Grinning, I look toward the main building. A dilapidated chain-link fence encloses what had once been the electrical box. The fence has been cut; the electrical box door has been pried off its hinges.

“Looks like the copper thieves have come and gone.” He leans the second metal detector against the bumper and slams the trunk. “How long has this place been closed?”

“Around eighteen years. Give or take.”

“Looks it.” He straightens, his eyes skimming the trees and thick underbrush. He’s not the uneasy type, but I sense his tension. I feel that same tension creeping into my own psyche. We’re isolated here and surrounded on all sides by perfect hiding places. If you wanted to ambush a cop, this would be the perfect place to do it.