The Schuyler House

by Cade Haddock Strong

  As I approach the well-lit house, I slow the truck down and turn off Route 29A and onto Chicken Foot Road. If it’s still there, the Tahoe should be about a quarter mile down the road. Not surprisingly, Chicken Foot Road is in much worse shape than Route 29A. In fact, I would guess that it has not been plowed since we drove down it in the Tahoe a few hours earlier. I think I can make out a set of car tracks, but it’s hard to judge how recent they are.

  Even in four-wheel drive, the old Ford is really struggling in the deep snow and I’m afraid it will get stuck. Reluctantly, I decide I would probably be better off walking the quarter mile up the road to see if the Tahoe is still where we left it. I carefully maneuver the Ford F-150 slightly farther up the road so that it’s away from the spotlight of the over-decorated house and is no longer easily visible from Route 29A. I’ve left tire tracks in the snow, but they should be covered by fresh snow in a matter of minutes.

  I put the truck in park and am about to kill the engine when it occurs to me that I am wearing nothing but two huge flannel shirts and a pair of enormous grandma jeans, not exactly ideal attire for trekking a quarter mile through knee-deep snow. I rummage around behind the seats of the truck and find an old Carhartt jumpsuit like the ones you see construction workers wear when they have to work outside in really cold weather. It’s filthy and way too big for me, but it will keep me warm. I kick off my borrowed rubber boots and wrangle myself into the jumpsuit. I slip back into the rubber boots, grab the flashlight out of Sarah’s fanny pack, kill the engine and jump down onto the snowy road.

  I’m grateful Sarah’s flashlight still works even after it went for a swim in the river with me. I shine it up Chicken Foot Road and start to walk toward the Tahoe. It’s very slow going. The combination of the deep snow and the bulky jumpsuit make it incredibly difficult for me to walk. In a matter of minutes, I am seriously sweating. After about thirty minutes, the beam of the flashlight reflects off something in the distance, and after a few more minutes, I’m able to make out the sign for the snowmobile trail a few hundred yards ahead.

  A huge wave of relief hits me when I see that the Tahoe is gone, but as I get a bit closer, I spot one of our snowmobiles ditched in the snowbank at the side of the road. That doesn’t make sense. Kat, Ellen, and Sarah would have needed two snowmobiles to get back to the Tahoe. I start to run through the possibilities in my head, and the only explanation that I can think of is that they took one snowmobile with them in case the Tahoe got stuck in the snow but decided not to waste the time to load them both up on the trailer. It doesn’t really seem to add up, but I’m sure they were anxious to get as far away from Schuyler House as quickly as they could. I’m anxious to get out of there too and turn to start the slow walk back to the truck. I just wish I had a damn phone so that I could try and reach my friends and let them know I’m okay.

  The walk back to the truck goes a little faster than the walk in since I now have my footsteps to follow. The snow hasn’t yet totally covered the trail that I broke on the way in. Nonetheless, I’m happy when I see the Ford F-150 parked up ahead and I pick up my pace. I’m about fifty yards from the truck when I see the telltale flashing blue lights. I watch in horror as a cop slows on Route 29A and turns onto Chicken Foot Road. I am a complete sitting duck when he shines his bright white cop light on the Ford F-150 and then directs it up the road in my direction. The light is blinding and its reflection off the snow lights up Chicken Foot Road like it’s the bright of day. I reach up to shield my eyes.

  The cop steps out of the car and my body goes numb with fear. My first instinct is to run but I realize that is ridiculous. It would take me at least thirty seconds to make it through the deep snow to the nearest patch of trees. For the cop, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Instead, I take a few deep breaths and walk unsteadily toward him. I raise my hand and give him a friendly wave like we’re two acquaintances greeting one another at the neighborhood hardware store.

  He walks toward me and we meet alongside the F-150. I give him a long look and try to gauge whether he’s here to capture me or thinks I’m just a plain old stranded motorist. “Good evening sir,” I say as confidently as I can.

  “Evening ma’am. No one in his or her right mind should be out on a night like this. Everything okay?”

  He doesn’t appear like he’s readying to cuff me and toss me into the back of his SUV. I let out a sigh of relief and my brain starts racing. I feel I need to explain why I am out in the middle of a snowstorm in the middle of the night. “Um, yeah, everything’s fine. Our dog went missing just after the snow started coming down. We looked everywhere and were really starting to worry because of the storm. I walk him on this road a lot so I thought maybe he came this way. But, my husband just texted to say he found the dog,” I explain and hope I don’t sound too rambly and nervous.

  “Well, glad to hear he’s okay. Can I escort you home?”

  Oh, shit, I think to myself. Think fast Pearson. “Um, well, that’s very kind of you but I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do in a storm like this. Plus, my husband knows where I am and he can come help me if I get stuck or something,” I reply.

  “Alrighty then. You stay safe. Oh, and, Merry Christmas,” he says.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, sir. Have a good evening.”

  I climb in the cab of the Ford F-150 and stare in awe as the cop turns around and heads back to Route 29A. That was a little too close for comfort, I think to myself. I fire up the truck, eager to get the hell out of there. It’s hard to tell exactly where the road ends and the ditch alongside it begins; I do my best to stay in the center of the road as I work to turn the truck around. The last thing I need is to get stuck in the snow. After completing an at least eight-point turn, the truck is finally facing back toward Route 29A.

  I work my way back on Route 29A toward Vermont. Just then, reality of my situation starts to set in and I am utterly amazed that cop didn’t haul me away. I mean, I’m driving around in a stolen truck only a short distance from the Schuyler House. Surely the security guard has called in the attempted burglary by now. It will be nothing short of a miracle if I can get out of the area. The fact that it is Christmas Eve and we’re in the midst of a major snowstorm has turned out to be a distinct disadvantage—the roads are virtually empty so any vehicle out on the road sticks out like a major sore thumb.

  Chapter Seven

  I glance down at my watch and cannot believe that it’s almost five a.m. “Holy crap,” I mutter as I reckon that the owner of the truck I’m driving is likely to wake up soon and notice his vehicle is no longer parked under his carport.

  I’ve managed to cover a fair number of miles since I left Chicken Foot Road, especially given the road conditions. I just turned onto Route 8 and know that I’m roughly heading in the direction of Vermont, although I’d like to touch base with my friends and ditch my stolen truck before I cross the state line. Before I have time to further contemplate my predicament, the truck’s low fuel light starts to blink, causing me to start cursing again. Based on the last sign I saw, I should be within a few miles of Cantonville, a small town through which Route 8 passes. I realize that the likelihood there’s a gas station in Cantonville that happens to be open at five o’clock on Christmas morning is pretty slim, but I keep my fingers crossed nonetheless.

  Finally, I enter Cantonville, and it’s a stretch to even call it a town. There isn’t even a traffic light and the one and only gas station is closed; however, I do spot the neon sign for a small motor inn just as I reach the far edge of town. For lack of any better option, I steer the truck toward the motor inn. I opt to follow the signs directing me to overflow parking around back rather than grabbing a spot in front of the inn. The overflow parking lot for the inn is empty except for two large motor coaches parked in the back left corner of the lot. I park the Ford as far as I can from the motor coaches and walk slowly toward the dimly lit back entrance of the inn. I try the back door. It’s unlocked and leads into a small room w
ith coin laundry machines and a small sitting room off to the right.

  When I step inside, I can hear voices coming from the sitting room, and it sounds like there’s a TV on in the background. I walk past the laundry machines and poke my head in the sitting room. I’m surprised to see two large men sitting in the corner sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. They are facing the TV and their backs are to me so they don’t seem to notice I’ve entered the room. I take a quick look around before ducking back into the laundry room area.

  It’s really warm in the laundry area of the inn, and even though I have pretty much thawed out by now, the warmth still feels really good. I have some time to kill before the gas station opens so I slide into one of the plastic chairs along the wall opposite the laundry machines. I stare at the machines in front of me and get the idea to toss my still-wet clothes into one of the dryers. It would enable me to get out of the ridiculous outfit I’m wearing and into clothes more suitable for the weather. My wet clothes are still in the truck so I jump out of my chair and head back out into the parking lot, where I grab the pillowcase with my clothes and my Sorel boots off the floor of the truck. I dig around in the ashtray to see if I can find a few quarters for the dryer. Bingo.

  I walk back to the laundry room and toss my wet pile of clothes and boot liners into one of the dryers and insert my quarters.

  Once my clothes start spinning around in the dryer, I slump in a nearby chair and just stare at them as they go round and round. I’m thoroughly exhausted, but my mind starts to race as gradually I replay the events of the horrific evening.

  After a while, I tune in to the conversation the two men in the lobby are having. From what I can gather, they’re the drivers for the buses parked out in the lot, and their passengers are a large group of skiers from a Jewish group in New York City. It sounds like they were supposed to head back to the city yesterday but got stranded by the storm and are both carrying on about how much it royally sucks to be stranded on Christmas morning. The skiers are due to emerge from their rooms any minute now, and the goal is to hit the road before the sun comes up. Apparently, the drivers are not Jewish because they both seem extremely bent out of shape at the possibility of missing Christmas morning with their families. I assume the inn is close to Gore Mountain, one of the larger ski areas in the area, which means we should be within three hours of New York City.

  My eyes wander up to the TV screen in the room, and I mindlessly watch a Seinfeld rerun as I wait for my clothes to dry. Eventually, the episode ends and a local female news anchor appears on the screen. I pay attention vaguely to what she’s saying, but my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when a photo of the Schuyler House appears on the screen behind her. I abruptly sit up in my chair and crane my neck to try to hear what she’s saying over the sound of the dryer. I can’t help but notice that the two bus drivers have stopped talking and are both glancing up at the TV screen too. I reach down and clench the sides of my chair and hold my breath as the news anchor begins to speak.

  “And now to breaking news…Two people were killed early this morning in an apparent botched Christmas Eve burglary at the Schuyler House. Police responded to a 911 call around one o’clock this morning and encountered a conscious but severely injured male security guard and two deceased females. The females’ bodies were discovered in the ravine behind the house. Police haven’t declared a cause of death for the two victims, but did say that they, along with the guard, were likely on the back deck of the house when it apparently collapsed under the weight of the snow. Police have not provided any additional details at this point, and it is not known if others were involved.

  “Now on to the weather and an update on the storm that is walloping the region. Tom, is there an end in sight?”

  The camera moves over to a lanky weatherman standing in front of a map. Holy fucking shit. I feel my throat constrict and feel like I might get sick. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. “Fuck! Fuck!” I say under my breath. How the hell did this happen?

  My brain goes into total overdrive as I try to run through exactly what the news anchor said. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that she said two females were found, not three. I flash back to the moment the deck collapsed and try to put the pieces together. Ellen was definitely inside the house when the deck gave way, so that must mean that Kat and Sarah… Oh, God, it must mean that the two bodies they found in the ravine are Kat and Sarah… The urge to vomit overtakes me, and I jump from my seat and hurl into a nearby wastebasket.

  Back in my chair, the next emotion to run through me is guilt. Why did I survive the fall when the deck crumbled but not Kat and Sarah? I mean, I was standing within a few feet of them when the deck gave way. It just doesn’t make any sense. I do, however, feel a slight glimmer of hope at the possibility that Ellen was able to escape unharmed. The newscaster made no mention of a third female, dead or alive. The more I think about it, that would explain why I saw only one snowmobile ditched in the snowbank when I went back to Chicken Foot Road—there was only one snowmobile because only Ellen escaped from Schuyler House and emerged from the forest where we left the SUV.

  My breathing is ragged as I try to digest the news. We knew what we did was fraught with risk, but I always framed that risk as risk of getting caught. One of us dying in the course of a burglary? That most certainly never crossed my mind. And God, what a freaking fluke accident that the deck collapsed just at that exact moment. If it had collapsed a few minutes earlier, or even a few minutes later, Kat and Sarah would most likely still be alive.

  I stare into space. Obviously, there isn’t anything I can do for Sarah and Kat at this point. I have no idea where Ellen is, and since my iPhone is totally dead, she has no way to reach me. I’m sure as hell not going to ask to use the inn’s phone to try and reach her. That would be like sending up a flare to the police. I just need to get my hands on a cell phone, I think to myself while also realizing that I don’t even have Ellen’s number committed to memory. Her number, just like everyone else’s, is saved in my contacts, which doesn’t do me a hell of a lot of good right now.

  One of the bus drivers sneezes, drawing my attention back to the other room. My eyes wander up to the TV where the female newscaster is back on and is now reminding viewers about the fire hazards associated with Christmas lights and candles. Merry fucking Christmas.

  Slowly, I confront the reality that I cannot sit in this laundry room forever. I need to figure out where the hell I’m going to go from here, and I need to figure it out soon. It won’t be much longer before the rightful owner of the Ford wakes up and realizes his truck is missing.

  Obviously, one option is to hop back in the stolen truck and try to make it back to Vermont. I could gather up some of my belongings and try and find a place to hide out for a while. The newscaster seemed to imply that the police were still in the dark about any potential accomplices of the Schuyler House burglary, so this leads me to believe there isn’t a major manhunt (or in this case a womanhunt) underway. I may be cocky, but I’m pretty confident that it’s going to take even the sharpest cop some time to connect the dots between Kat, Sarah, Ellen, and me. It is not like Ellen and I left business cards at the scene, and I don’t think there are any obvious clues that link the four of us together. Sure, we were all friends and we spent a good amount of time together, but we never discussed the burglaries in emails or text messages and we certainly didn’t share our “hobby” with the people around us. In fact, the only person outside the four of us—aside from Olivier, of course—who even knew what we’ve been up to is Kat’s husband Todd and, to some extent, good old Jake.

  Nonetheless, I rule out trying to make it to Vermont. First off, I don’t have a solid source of transportation. I don’t want to risk driving that stolen truck for much longer, and it’s not like I can walk out in front of the inn and hail a cab—I’m in the middle of nowhere! So that means I need a Plan B… I start to consider my alternatives when the beep of the dryer interrupts my thoughts.


  I gather up my warm clothes and head toward the lobby to search for a ladies’ room or someplace where I can change out of my flannel shirt ensemble and back into my ski pants and parka. I search around the various downstairs rooms of the hotel, and all I can find is some sort of maid’s closet off the lobby. For lack of a better option, I duck in there, pull the string to turn on the light and find myself face-to-face with shelves full of toilet paper and industrial cleaning supplies. I kick off the rubber boots, slide the now dry liners back in my Sorel boots and quickly change my clothes. I reach down and gather the flannel shirts and the too-large jeans off the floor and look around for a place to stuff them in the closet before deciding I’m probably better off just putting the old clothes back in the truck. I stuff the clothes under my arm and slip back out of the closet.

  It’s at this point that I realize that I really have to pee, and my earlier search turned up no bathroom in the lobby of the small hotel. With no other immediate alternative, I head back out into the dark parking lot, toss the clothes in the back of the cab and then squat to pee behind the truck. I leave a big yellow stain in the snowbank, make a little snowball to use as toilet paper (a handy trick I learned while winter camping when I was in college) and start to walk back to the hotel lobby.

  I get about halfway there when I see the two bus drivers coming out of the hotel heading toward their coaches in the back of the parking lot. One of them turns to me and says, “Ya better get your stuff. We’re hitting the road in fifteen minutes. Hoping to make it back into the city by eleven o’clock.” I stop dead in my tracks and watch them continue walking toward the buses.