It’s fully dark now and I’m thoroughly chilled. I’ve just started for the trailer when I hear the whine of an engine. According to the aerial photos, the nearest road is Swamp Creek Road, which is to the south. The sound of the engine is to the north. I’m pondering possible sources when headlights flicker through the trees. Not a car or truck, I realize, but a snowmobile, and it’s coming this way.

There’s nothing sinister about a nighttime snowmobile ride. More than likely it’s someone out to have some fun in the snow. Still, I don’t want to be seen here in the very spot where Rachel Esh’s body was found. I glance around for cover. There are hundreds of trees, but not all of them are large enough to conceal me if the snowmobiler gets close. I spy a snarl of bramble at the base of an evergreen, dash over to it, and drop to my knees.

The whine of the engine grows louder. Not one machine, but two. Headlight beams slash through the trees. Shadows cartwheel against the trunks. I hunker down, the brush snagging my coat. The headlights flash over me and move on. The machines stop twenty yards away. Engines rumbling. There are two people on each snowmobile. The drivers are wearing snowsuits and helmets. The passengers are smaller. Women, I realize. No helmets. Regular coats.

The men are talking, loudly to be heard above the engines. I’m shocked to realize they’re speaking Pennsylvania Dutch. They’re too far away for me to catch all of the conversation. Something about a dirt road. I’m puzzling over these Amish men utilizing gasoline-engine powered vehicles when one of the passengers launches herself from the snowmobile and throws herself into a sprint. Adrenaline burns through my gut when I realize her hands are bound in front of her.

What the hell?

“Shtobba!” the man with whom she’d been riding yells. Stop. “Halt!”

“Sie is am shpringa!” shouts the second driver. She’s running!

The man she’d been riding with unfastens his helmet, throws it to the ground, and vaults from the seat. “Stop!” He sprints after the woman. Even mired by the snow and his bulky clothes, it takes him only a few strides to catch her. He takes her down in a full-body tackle. The woman makes a muffled sound, her face crushed into the snow.

The man gets to his knees, flips her onto her back, and straddles her. “Stupid woman!” he shouts. “Get on the machine.”

She spits snow in his face and shouts something in a language I don’t recognize. He draws back and slaps her in the face.

A hundred scenarios snap through my brain. Is this some kind of domestic dispute? Are these people intoxicated? Or is something more sinister going on? For a split second I debate whether to intervene. Of course, if I do, I risk blowing my cover. But there’s no way I can stand by and let that son of a bitch assault her. The man takes the decision away from me when he punches her a second time.