I’ve just started toward the trailer when the toe of my boot nudges something beneath the snow. Kneeling, I brush away snow and pull out a faceless Amish doll. It’s about eight inches long. The fabric is tattered and dirty. Stitched into the material are the words LIFE BEYOND DEATH.

The odd inscription gives me pause. No one puts words like that on a child’s doll. More than likely they were sewn into the fabric subsequent to Rachel’s death and left here as some kind of tribute after the crime scene people left. Someone had cared about Rachel Esh. Mourned her death. Her parents? Her best friend, Marie Weaver? Her boyfriend? Or is this something else? The response of a guilty conscience from someone unknown?

I don’t have an evidence bag, so I drop the doll into my coat pocket. I’ll pass it off to Suggs later. Chances are it won’t tell us anything, but it’s worth a closer look.

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?