I recall seeing the roof of the old barn when I looked at the aerial maps. It’s part of the original homestead and is probably close to a hundred years old. Suggs had seemed confident none of the old outbuildings were in use. Evidently, he hadn’t looked closely enough.

So what the hell are two Amish guys doing out here on Schrock’s land at one o’clock in the morning? The first answer that enters my head is drugs. Are they using the barn to manufacture meth? Store marijuana? Either scenario would explain the late night snowmobile traffic. Perhaps even the presence of the two women I saw them with. But why did someone leave me that note? I can’t help but wonder if maybe Rachel Esh stumbled upon this place, same as me, and saw something she shouldn’t have.…

It’s too cold for me to stick around much longer. The last thing I need is frostbitten fingers or toes. But I want to know what’s inside the barn. If I swing south and make my way through the trees, I’ll have a semi-decent view of the interior through the door.

I veer left, away from the tracks I’d been following, and, using the trees as cover, I make my way closer. I’ve only gone a few yards when the drone of an engine sounds behind me. Instinctively, I drop to my knees. Light flickers off the trees around me. I glance over my shoulder and see a single headlight glinting through the trees just ten yards away. Hunkering down, I crawl to a rock the size of a shopping cart and peer around it.

The snowmobile zooms past, so close I can smell the exhaust fumes. It’s the same snowmobile I saw earlier. Only this time the driver has a passenger. I get to my knees and watch as he parks next to the other machines.

The passenger is female. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I notice her dress. She’s bundled up in a man’s coat, but it doesn’t quite cover her skirt and boots. She’s Amish. What the hell is she doing out here with these men? The man slides off the machine, unfastens the strap of his helmet, and hurls it twenty feet. Bending to his passenger, he shouts something I can’t hear. Using both hands he shoves her off the seat.

The woman lands on her back, but quickly jumps to her feet. The man approaches her, yelling. She unfastens her helmet and swings it at him. He deflects the blow, yanks it from her grasp and flings it to the ground.

Movement at the barn door draws my attention. I glance over to see Yoder and Smucker emerge. Still wearing their snowsuits. No ski masks. The music blares. Even forty yards away, I can hear every note of Lynryd Skynyrd’s “Freebird.”