Page 6 of Property of Stone (Kings of Anarchy MC: Pennsylvania #1)

Chapter Two

It took a while to find him, but Taryn’s determination finally paid off. It also helped that some of her past and current clients had connections with access to non-public records. It only took asking the right one. One who also didn’t ask fifty questions on why she needed the info.

Or lecture her on searching for “trouble.”

It was her opinion that day in the parking lot almost fourteen months ago, her savior had been nothing but “good trouble.”

According to the info, James Conrad lived in Dead Man’s Hollow. It was about an hour north of Harrisburg and only twenty minutes or so away from where she lived in Selinsgrove on the opposite side of the Susquehanna River.

Lifting her foot off the accelerator, she let her Honda Pilot slow enough so she could get a better view of her surroundings. She glanced at the map on her dashboard again. Was this right? The area seemed so remote, despite being only minutes from Sunbury .

“Make the next right onto Brush Valley Road,” George, her monotone GPS voice, instructed.

Well, if George was telling her to take a right…

She followed his guidance and a minute later was surprised to find herself deep in a thickly wooded area.

“In a quarter mile, make a left onto Whiskey Springs Road.”

“Okay, okay. But I’m not liking this.” She wouldn’t be surprised if the next road ended up being dirt.

Nobody was out here. At least she had cell phone coverage. It might not be strong but two bars was better than zero.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Maybe this was a bad idea. But then again, so was marrying Victor.

She swore her life was one bad decision after another.

“Your destination is on your right,” George announced.

“Are you sure, George? It sure looks like an old school to me.” Maybe even an abandoned one.

Of course, George refused to answer her.

She pulled over and hunched down enough so she could get a better view of the sprawling two-story brick building at the top of a long, grassy slope.

Surrounding the building and a majority of the property was a six-foot chain-link fence.

Most likely installed to keep out vandals after the school was closed.

To the right of the school were double gates with one side wide open. The empty paved parking lot in front of those gates had seen better days.

From where Taryn sat, she could see the cracked and crumbling macadam also had some deep potholes wide enough to dent a rim, if not pop a tire, and the painted lines for the parking spots were barely visible, another sign that the lot hadn’t been maintained in a long time .

George had to be mistaken. James Conrad could not be living at this address. He had to have provided a fake ID when he was arrested that day.

But why this property? He had to have some sort of ties to it.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, she contemplated her next steps. She could park in that lot and travel on foot through the gate. Or she could simply drive through it and straight up to the building.

However, the abundance of ominous “no trespassing” signs attached every few yards to the metal fence posts was a good indicator she needed to be cautious. She might not be welcome here, whether on foot or four wheels.

At least if she drove up, she could make a quick escape. That decided it.

She pulled through the gate.

When you get out, keep your door unlocked and your keys in your hand. Seconds might count.

Another huge parking lot at the top of the hill and much closer to the school had rusty signs stating the parking was for “staff only.” Nobody was parked in that lot, either. However, she saw what appeared to be a few junk cars in the distance behind the school.

Once she parked, she could easily read a weather-stained concrete rectangle embedded in the brick above the entrance: Oaklyn Public School.

Public school . No indication whether it had been an elementary, junior high or middle school, or even a senior high.

No one made this type of school a home. Offices, maybe. A home, no.

It made no sense. This address had to be wrong. But since she was here, she might as well confirm it.

She glanced around one more time before climbing out. Once she did, she stood there for a few seconds, waiting to see if anyone would approach.

She didn’t see a soul.

Once at the school’s front entrance, she found the door handles chained together with a heavy-duty lock as well as two huge “no trespassing” signs.

She was sensing a theme here. A very unwelcoming one.

Since the door’s dirty window panes were covered from the inside, she couldn’t even get a peek inside.

Shit.

With a building this size, common sense said there was more than one way to get in. She only needed to find one that wasn’t locked or blocked.

The landscaping around the exterior had probably been abandoned since the last time the school saw a student. What remained was dead and overgrown with weeds.

If someone did live here, they wanted it to look as uninviting as possible.

Goal achieved.

She headed back in the direction she had come from, but instead of returning to her car—what a sane person would do—she rounded the building and came across a metal basement door that was also locked.

Of course.

With a sigh, she continued on, heading around back. The school was bigger than at first glance. The placard by the front door stated it was built in 1927, but it looked like some major updates and additions had been done after that.

Obviously, none of them recent.

When she got to the rear of the property, her feet slowed to a stop and she blinked to make sure she was seeing all of it clearly. Either the place was occupied or it had been vandalized, she couldn’t quite tell.

Or it could be a popular party spot for local teenagers.

She continued on her trek, taking it all in.

Rusty fifty-five-gallon drums, cut in half, had been used to make barbecue grills with the grates made out of stolen shopping carts. She hoped anyone eating off those were up to date on their tetanus shot.

She kept moving and spotted a burnt circle full of chunks of charcoal and piles of ashes. Stacked next to the huge fire pit was a mountain of wood pallets at least twelve feet high.

She next came across a covered pavilion built out of what appeared to be scrap wood and metal road signs.

No surprise that it needed a fresh coat of paint.

On the cracked concrete slab under the pavilion were six picnic tables and another half dozen were scattered around the rear schoolyard, some in the beaten-down grass and the rest in dirt.

Those weather-worn tables must’ve been used recently as they were not only covered in, but also surrounded by trash. Half-empty beer bottles full of cigarette butts. Smashed beer cans. Shards of broken bottles.

A few garbage cans also made from fifty-five-gallon drums dotted the area. No surprise, they were all overflowing. At least at one point, whoever had partied here made an effort to try to keep the area clean.

Apparently, that hadn’t lasted long.

Not an ashtray could be found. But silly her, that was what the bottles and cans were for, right? Or maybe not, since she couldn’t take one step without seeing crushed cigarette butts in the dirt under her feet.

About three hundred yards from the rear of the school and along the tree line, she spotted something that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

A haphazard “shooting range.” It included shredded paper targets of life-sized silhouettes as well as blown apart cans and bottles. A headless, armless mannequin had a massive hole blown through its torso, most likely made with a shotgun or a high-caliber handgun.

She was so out of her element.

She shouldn’t have come here.

If Mr. Conrad truly lived at this address, it was screaming, “Leave me alone. Or else.” He most likely didn’t want her here looking for him. Even though she only wanted to thank him.

She should’ve mailed a damn postcard, or sent a “thanks for beating the crap out of my ex” greeting card.

“Hey, girly! You lost?”

She jumped out of her skin. Her heart skipped a beat or two and it took her a few seconds to find her breath so she could answer, “I…I’m not sure.”

A bearded man with a beer belly so big he looked about to deliver triplets stood only yards away. His black leather vest couldn’t be buttoned closed even if he tried. His worn jeans were dirty with brown and black stains. She didn’t want to know from what.

She needed to pay better attention. This man approached her while she’d been distracted. She glanced around to make sure he was the only one and this wasn’t an ambush.

He tipped his head and scratched at his long beard. “Huh. Pretty fuckin’ sure you are. Best you get back in that cage of yours and skedaddle.”

Cage? Skedaddle?

His scraggly salt and pepper beard was overdue to have a date with a weed whacker. It would take a day’s work to find his lips in that mess.

Taryn would not volunteer to be on that search party.

His boots, similar to the ones James Conrad had been wearing, were covered in scuffs and dried mud. What gray-streaked hair remained on his head was pulled back into a thin ponytail. The man should stop fighting the good fight and shave it off.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked the still burning butt onto the ground.

This is why the “yard,” or whatever it was called, looked the way it did.

“Like whatcha see, girly?” He yanked on his long beard again as if he was pointing out his best feature.

No, she was not interested in the man standing before her.

“I have business here.” She squinted and read the patch on his vest, “Patch?”

“Business?” Patch chuckled. “You a whore?”

Her chin jerked into her neck. What kind of question was that? Besides a rude one. “No. Do I look like one?”

“No particular look for a whore. But if you ain’t, then you don’t belong here. Best you leave.”

Just like that? “I’m looking for someone.”

He planted a hand on his hip and shook his head. “Ain’t we all?”

“His name is James Conrad.”