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* * *
Trish Brenner finished dinner at the dining hall and went back to her dorm to prepare for her evening ritual—four or five hours at Firestone Library. She knew she studied too hard and that her social life was an epic fail because of it. But she’d worked like a demon to get into Princeton University, and she wasn’t going to blow it by partying and letting her assignments slide.
She had a huge paper to write this week, one on all of Shakespeare’s tragedies, and it was going to take a lot of effort to write it, much less ace it. So she was getting an early start, reviewing several plays each night and taking copious notes on each of them.
She packed up her wieldy textbook of Shakespearian plays, and shoved it in her book bag, along with her laptop, a notebook and assorted writing and highlighting implements.
She pulled on a light windbreaker and ran a brush through her long, red hair.
Time to hit the stacks.
* * *
It had been a frustrating day for Hutch and Brian.
Brian pulled off the thruway at Exit 19, paid the toll and took Route 28 East. Five minutes later they were sitting in front of Kingston Hospital.
They left the car out front and strode inside the main lobby. Immediately, they were accosted by a security guard, who’d spotted them through the glass door, ignoring the no parking signs.
Hutch displayed his FBI credentials and informed the now-cooperative guard that they were there on official business. The guard escorted them to the information desk.
Hutch addressed the receptionist behind the desk. “Which room is John Nessman in?” he asked, referring to the corrections officer who was driving the prison van. “Also, Frank Rumson,” he added, referring to the second officer.
The woman checked her list. “Room 323 and Room 347.” She pointed down the hall, then called after them to take the Blue Elevator.
Hutch and Brian reached Room 323, flashed their credentials again—this time at the local cop who was stationed in the doorway—and went in. Nessman was bandaged and in obvious pain from the concussion, broken wrist and severe lacerations he’d sustained from flying glass. His wife was sitting at his side, comforting him. When Hutch and Brian appeared, and identified themselves to her, she agreed to get a cup of coffee and return in a few minutes so they could talk. She requested that they please go easy on him, given his pain and the ordeal he’d gone through. They a
greed, and she slipped out of the room.
Despite his condition, Nessman responded to each and every one of Hutch and Brian’s questions, explaining how the pickup truck had suddenly pulled into the fast lane, cutting him off. After that, he’d swerved into the slow lane to avoid hitting the truck, but the driver had intentionally sideswiped the van. There was no question that there was malicious intent involved.
“I did my best to defend against the attack, but the debris in the road caused me to lose some control. The truck hit me again, and that sent the van off the road.” He sighed, grimacing in pain. “The rest is a blur, and then everything went black. I woke up in this hospital bed.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Hutch asked. “Anything that might help?”
Nessman gave a tentative nod. “I know this sounds farfetched, but I had the gut feeling that the truck was waiting to ambush me. It’s as if the driver knew exactly where I was and when. I don’t know how he’d manage that, but he did.”
Hutch was about to ask more about the correction officer’s assessment when his wife returned. She was visibly concerned about the effect the FBI’s visit was having on her husband.
Instinctively, Hutch and Brian rose to leave. Hutch paused only to tell Mrs. Nessman that her husband was very brave and had done everything he could to prevent what had happened.
“He’s going to be fine,” Brian assured her. “A little TLC and he’ll be as good as new.”
She nodded, her eyes filled with tears.
Hutch and Brian went on to Room 347 to repeat the process with Frank Rumson. Unfortunately, the poor guy was so out of it from the morphine they were giving him that he was barely conscious. So they weren’t getting any more information here today.
Back in the car, Brian got behind the wheel, and Hutch slid into the passenger seat.
“Now that was interesting,” Brian said as he steered out of the parking lot. “Nessman felt as if his attacker was lying in wait.”
“And that he knew just when and where to show up.” Hutch’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “This looks more and more like a plan that was finely tuned and perfectly executed. I have no doubt Fisher’s capable of both. What I want to know is how.”
Hutch punched in Ryan’s number again.
“Still on it,” Ryan answered.
“Well, add this to your list of specifications.” Hutch relayed the correction officer’s insights about being tracked.
