Tucking the cell into my pocket, I check the time—one A.M.—and start off at a jog. Light snow is still falling, but the cloud cover has thinned. Misty moonlight silvers the tree branches and makes the track shoe marks visible and easy to follow. Within minutes, the physical exertion warms my core, staving off the shivers and helping to ease the ache in my hands and feet. I jog until I’m out of breath and slow to a brisk walk.

Around me the trees thicken. The snowfall tapers off, and when the moonlight beams down, the world transforms into an ethereal place of scampering shadows and snow that sparkles like diamond sand. I’m fifteen minutes into my hike when I hear music. I stop and listen for the source or the sound of a snowmobile engine, but there’s no one there. I walk another two hundred yards before I see the flicker of light coming through the trees. I slow down, wary now, doing my best to not make any noise.

I visualize the aerial map; I’m on Schrock land now. His house is a mile or so southwest of where I stand. Highway 30 is due west. The Trout River State Forest lies to the north. Beyond is the Canadian border.

So where the hell is the music coming from?

I continue on another fifty yards. To my right the land slopes steeply. If my sense of direction is correct and memory serves me, I think the Little Trout River lies to the northeast. I pick my way around a rocky outcropping and duck beneath low branches. The music is louder now. An old Led Zeppelin song I haven’t heard for years. The haunting pulse of Jimmy Page’s guitar echoes off a thousand trees. Ahead, light beckons. There’s some kind of structure a hundred yards away. I wonder if I’ve walked up on one of Schrock’s late-night parties.

As I draw closer, I realize it’s an old barn. Paint long since gone. Tin roof with several sheets peeling and curled. A fire blazes in a stone fire pit, light flickering against a concrete silo that leans at a precarious angle. Another building has already collapsed to a heap—the source of the firewood no doubt. Beyond is a tumbling frame house that’s long since been abandoned. Part of the roof has caved in, the remainder a swayback patchwork of splintered planks and tin shingles. The lone window stares at me like a black eye socket.

Two snowmobiles are parked outside the barn, but no one’s in sight. I’m too far away to see footprints, but golden light spills out through the big sliding door, telling me someone’s inside.