He stared at the TV in his cheap motel room, anger churning in his veins.
Just that afternoon he’d stepped out of jail a free man for the first time in eight years. Man, the feeling! Sun on his skin, fresh air. He could go where he wanted, eat what he wanted. Sleep in a real bed.
Sizzling with anticipation, he caught a bus for the short trip into Phoenix.
At midnight he sank down on the edge of the bed, shoes off, tired to the bone. He flipped on the TV—and saw Rayne O’Connor screaming at a photographer.
Three times, the cable news channel played footage of the scene.
“Rayne O’Connor is now in Denver’s St. Joseph’s Hospital, reportedly with multiple cracked ribs,” a perky blonde news anchor said. “She is expected to have a full, though long, recovery. This on the very same night that Rayne’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Shaley, was taken hostage by Jerry Brand, a man hired to drive one of the rock band’s buses. Brand is the alleged killer of two men on tour—Tom Hutchens, hair stylist and makeup artist, and bodyguard Bruce Stolz. Police fatally shot Brand during the rescue of Shaley O’Connor …”
His mouth had fallen open. His fingers clenched the TV remote.
Now here he sat, jaw hardened to granite, a buzz in his head.
The police had to be lying.
But the last few times he’d tried to call Jerry to check in, Jerry hadn’t answered his cell phone. Had the man been avoiding him on purpose?
Now Jerry was dead.
“… no official word yet on the Rayne tour, which is scheduled to continue for another month.” The reporter’s voice pierced his consciousness. “But given the popular singer’s injuries, it is expected to be cancelled. And now to—”
He switched the channel, seeking other cable news stations. Once again, Rayne’s face filled the screen.
Eyes narrowed, he listened to every word of the report. When it ended he found a third station running the story. And a fourth.
He flipped channel after channel until he saw no more. He punched off the TV.
The rage simmered in his stomach, building to a full boil. He shoved off the bed and strode around the small room, fingers pressed to his temples.
What had Jerry done? Now there’d be more cops than ever around Rayne and Shaley O’Connor.
That afternoon he’d walked out of jail to the inheritance left by his grandmother. The sale of her small Phoenix home had netted Franklin a profit around $50,000. He’d only withdrawn a few hundred to stay in this cheap place for one night. He had plans for the rest of the money.
After the bank he’d gone to the DMV to renew his expired driver’s license.
He flung himself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d waited years to get to Rayne and Shaley O’Connor. Now, thanks to Jerry, it would be harder than ever. But he’d do it.
Denver. That’s where he’d be headed tomorrow. St. Joseph’s Hospital in Denver.