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Chapter One
Shortly after noon on a bright fall Wednesday, Abigail Barnes was taken into custody. She was escorted down the center aisle of the crowded courtroom by a somber-faced sheriff's guard. Whether it was apprehension or excitement that threatened her steadiness she wasn't sure. But she was oddly grateful for the firmness of the hand at her elbow, guiding her through the large black leather-sheathed doors to the stairway that wound to the ground floor of the Windsor County Courthouse.
"The van is waiting out front," the burly guard clipped as they started down the creaking steps.
Abby simply nodded, too concerned with matching his pace on the narrow stairs to say a word. Reaching the door, she was whisked through, then momentarily exposed to the noontime sun as the guard hurried her down the short granite path before inserting her into the dark blue van standing at the curb. She was barely seated when the door slid shut with a jarring bang. Her gaze flew questioningly to the uniformed driver as the guard returned to the courthouse.
"Where ... ?" she began, looking wide-eyed and helpless enough to evoke sympathy.
"He's gone to get the others. Then we'll be on our way."
"The others?" she asked softly. "So there were others?" It had been impossible to tell the fate of those taken from the holding room before she herself had been called.
"Two others," the guard informed her smugly. "We're getting there." Satisfied, he turned his attention to the gaggle of curious bystanders scattered on the lawn, the sidewalk, the street. Following his gaze, Abby seemed to notice the crowd for the first time.
"What are they staringat?" she whispered self-consciously, the question simply an expression of dismay to which she didn't expect an answer. She received one nonetheless.
"You." The guard tossed the single word back over his shoulder, then said no more.
Abby shivered in anticipation of what was to come. Lowering her head and settling more deeply into her seat in a futile effort to escape the eyes beyond, she yielded to amazement as she reviewed the events of the morning.
It had seemed that she'd been sitting for hours when in fact it had only been ninety minutes. Closing the medical journal in her lap, she shifted on the splint-back chair in an effort to get comfortable, then raised her eyes to study quietly her companions in the small jury room.
Propped straight in identically unyielding chairs, these men and women represented a cross section of the Vermont she'd come to know well.
No one could deny the subtle tension in the air. Each person in the room had heard the judge at the start of the morning's session and knew that, should he be chosen as a juror for this trial, his freedom would be sharply curtailed for the next three weeks.
Three weeks. To Abby, the thought was not as odious as it might have been a year earlier. Then there had been no Sean Hennessy in her life, pressuring her for a commitment she simply couldn't make. The chase hadn't even begun then. Now it tired her. Three weeks of captivity might offer an odd but welcome freedom.
Her lips toyed with a mischievous smile as she took a breath and sat back. She recalled the moment earlier that morning when the judge had addressed the gathered group, explaining the mechanics of a locked-up jury, asking to see those who, for one reason or another, couldn't possibly serve. A good half of those present had stepped forward, each taking a private turn before the judge, offering his best excuse and a plea for sympathy. In the majority of cases it was forthcoming. Judge Theodore Hammond knew the importance of weighing civic responsibility against emotional hardship. His jurors would have to be in top shape to absorb the barrage of testimony presented to them. The Bradley case promised to be a headliner. It wasn't every day that the grown son of one of the state's most prominent citizens stood trial on a charge of kidnapping.
The soft hum of conversation brought Abby's attention back to her fellows, several of whom carried on discussions among themselves. Others had buried themselves in books or magazines. Still others stared distractedly out the windows at the sparkling fall morning, much as she might have been tempted to do had her attention not been caught by a pair of warm gray eyes.
Slowly, she turned her head toward her viewer. He was every bit the man with a rakishly rich head of tawny brown hair, a face full of character, and a build that spoke of virility combined with grace. Abby was intrigued by the contrast he presented to the average man in the room. He was younger, probably not yet in his forties, charmingly casual in tan corduroy slacks and a matching blazer patched at the elbows, and he wore a certain air of worldliness she found captivating.
As he lounged against the sill of one of the four ceiling-to-hip windows, he seemed much more relaxed than the others. She wondered whether he too might have a secret reason for appreciating a three-week hiatus from routine. But she averted her eyes, feeling strangely shy when the stranger's brow furrowed in puzzlement. Perhaps he too wondered ...
Abby's gaze was one of many that shot toward the door as it opened to allow for the court officer's appearance.
"James Szar-Szarcylla ... ?" He read from his list, faltering slightly, relieved when a middle-aged man in a worn brown suit recognized the pronunciation and rose to be led upstairs to the courtroom.
The tremor of a collective sigh whispered its relief through those remaining. Venturing another glance at the man by the window, Abby was pleased to find that he too had detected the murmur ...
An Irresistible Impulse. Copyright © by Barbara Delinsky. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
