I stand there, shaking with cold and rage and disbelief. I’m somehow incredulous the situation has deteriorated to this. If I don’t play my cards right, it’ll soon become a life-or-death scenario.

Turning, I face the interior of the coop. Weak gray light creeps in through the gaps between the weathered wood siding. There’s a small door that’s about two feet square and at ground level on the far end for the chickens, but it’s closed. There are no chickens in sight. I can tell by the smell they haven’t been gone long. The place is dirty and, though I’m protected from the wind, cold as hell.

I make my way to the chicken door and kick it. It’s solidly closed; there’s probably a cross board nailed across it on the outside. There are no windows. I go back to the large door, shove at it with both hands, but it’s secure. Using my shoulder, I get a running start and bang against it. The door shudders beneath the force of my weight. I ram it again and again; I bring my foot up and kick it as hard as I can, but it refuses to give way. The sons of bitches put the padlock back on; I can hear it rattling on the outside.

I’m breathing hard from the physical effort. My shoulder hurts from the impact. My hands ache with cold. I can’t feel my fingers at all. I’m wearing sneakers with the socks I went to bed in, but they’re not enough to keep my feet warm, or even ward off frostbite. But the physical activity has alleviated the worst of the shaking. For now.

Half a dozen outcomes float uneasily through my brain. As far as I know, the men have left me here to freeze to death. I wonder if that’s the way it went down for Rachel Esh. Did they leave her here to die and then dump her body in the woods so the police would believe she’d perished in the storm? But why? Did she spurn Schrock’s advances? Did she see something she shouldn’t have?

This is what we do to nosy Amish women.

Have I been asking too many questions? Is that what this is about? Or does this have something to do with the two women I saw with the men on snowmobiles? Were those women somehow harmed? Are the men afraid I’ll identify them? The problem with that scenario is I didn’t see their faces; I couldn’t identify them. If not that, then what?

The bottom line is I’ve been careless. I spurned Schrock’s advances. I’ve asked too many questions. I fooled myself into believing I was being careful. In reality, I’d committed the mortal sin of undercover work: I underestimated the perspicacity of my enemy.