It Only Takes a Moment Read online

  The driver glanced at his watch. Anytime now. He sipped his lukewarm coffee and waited, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead at the brick Federal-style colonial way down at the end of the road.

  “They’re late this morning,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t you know they’d be late this morning?”

  Finally, the yellow minibus came into view. “There it is,” he said, crushing the empty cup in his hand. “There’s the bus.”

  The driver reached out to turn the key in the ignition.

  “Hold on,” said a voice from the back of the van. “Don’t rush it. We’ve got plenty of time. We’ve planned this carefully and we want to do this thing right.”

  The horn of the camp bus sounded.

  Janie took a last swallow of milk, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and wrapped her arms around her dog’s neck for one more hug. She ran to the front door and waited for Mrs. Garcia to enter the code to disarm the home-security system. Mrs. Garcia stood guard in the open doorway until Janie had safely boarded and the bus drove away.

  The housekeeper went back to the kitchen, cleared the bowls, cups, and silverware from the table and put them in the dishwasher. As she stood at the sink and washed her hands, Mrs. Garcia looked out the window, noticing that the geraniums were sorely in need of deadheading. She unlocked the French doors, slid back the screen, and walked out onto the slate patio. After she had separated the brownish buds from the white, healthy ones, Mrs. Garcia returned to the kitchen to drop the spent flowers in the trash.

  “Come on, Daisy,” Mrs. Garcia said, filling the dog’s bowl with water. “Let’s get you outside.”

  The yellow Lab followed the housekeeper out to the rear of the property where a shingled doghouse was positioned under a canopy of leaves. Mrs. Garcia put the bowl of water on the ground and hooked a long leash, designed to provide a wide range of movement, to the dog’s collar.

  Then, Mrs. Garcia went back into the house, pulling the screen door shut but leaving the French doors open to let in some fresh summer-morning air.

  The black van pulled directly into the driveway, coming to rest at the side of the house. Two figures dressed in overalls and work boots emerged. They walked purposefully around to the backyard, pausing to pull latex masks over their heads.

  “All set?” hissed the smaller of the two from behind an Olive Oyl mask that sported beady eyes and jet black hair pulled back in a bun.

  The other, as Popeye the sailor, stuck up his thumb. “Yep,” he said firmly. “We aren’t leaving anything to chance. I’ve been watching her for weeks and, on nice days, she leaves the back door open in the morning.”

  A dog started barking from the rear of the property. The yellow Lab ran toward them but was pulled back as the leash became taut.

  “Don’t worry. That damned dog is always barking,” said Popeye. “The housekeeper isn’t going to think anything of it.”

  Silently, Olive Oyl slid back the screen door. From inside the house, the telephone rang. Carefully and quietly, they followed in the direction of the voice that answered.

  “Sí, Mrs. Blake. Janie got off to camp all right.” Mrs. Garcia’s voice could be heard coming from upstairs.

  The intruders made their way to the staircase.

  “Everything is fine here.” The housekeeper’s voice sounded louder.

  They climbed to the second floor.

  “Okay, I will see you when you get home, Mrs. Blake.”

  Mrs. Garcia put the phone back in its cradle. She finished making the bed, fluffing the pillows and smoothing the coverlet. As she straightened up, she glanced in the mirror over the double dresser and saw two masked figures approaching her from behind.

  Mrs. Garcia lunged for the table at the side of the bed, but before she could reach the security button designed to summon help, Popeye pulled her back and threw her onto the mattress. Olive Oyl joined in, helping to pin her down. Together, they flipped Mrs. Garcia over so that she was lying with her face pressed against the coverlet, her air supply blocked. Using all her strength, the housekeeper struggled to free herself.

  “Don’t fight me, lady,” said Popeye as he tied Mrs. Garcia’s arms behind her back. “Save your energy. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Eliza hung up the phone, unclipped the microphone from her blouse, and got up from the sofa in the KEY to America “living room.” Today, it was Harry Granger’s turn to hang around in case there was any updating needed for the West Coast stations. She was free to go to her office and get organized before the reporter for People magazine arrived for an interview scheduled at ten o’clock.

  As she walked across the studio, she saw KTA producer Annabelle Murphy. “That’s some tan you’ve got there,” said Eliza.

  Annabelle smiled. “A benefit of working these early hours,” she said. “I get to take the twins to the pool almost every afternoon.”

  “You and Mike and the kids should come out to the ’burbs some weekend soon and hang out at the pool,” said Eliza. “Janie loves Tara and Thomas. They can swim and we can relax.”

  Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Relax? What’s that? When I’m at the pool with those two, I never even get a chance to sit down. I’m always breaking up water fights or smearing them with more sunscreen. When I come home from all that relaxing, I’m exhausted.”

  “So you don’t want to come?” asked Eliza.

  “Are you kidding? We’d love to. When?”

  “How about this weekend? Are you and Mike free on Sunday, maybe two o’clock?”

  “Great,” said Annabelle. “We’ll be there.” Her eyes traveled to the beads around Eliza’s wrist. “Nice bracelet. Bendel’s?” she asked.

  “Try Camp Musquapsink.” Eliza laughed, extending her arm. “Janie made it for me in arts and crafts.”

  “Well, she should go into business,” said Annabelle, examining the beads more closely. “I saw some bracelets, not as nice as this one, selling for fifty bucks apiece. Come to think of it, why don’t I get the twins and we can form an assembly line, make these things, sell them at high-end stores, and retire?”

  “Sure,” said Eliza. “I’m up for flouting child labor laws, if you are.”

  Annabelle smiled. “Where are you off to?”

  “My office. I’ve got yet another interview this morning. But, to tell you the truth, I think the exposure has gotten a little ridiculous. At some point, nobody cares anymore.”

  “Who’s the interview with this time?” asked Annabelle.

  “People,” answered Eliza. “So, if there is anyone left in America who doesn’t know that I’m a widow with a seven-year-old daughter who lives in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey, and relishes an occasional Butterfinger, this interview should take care of that.”

  As they began to part company, Eliza turned back. “By the way, Margo and I are having lunch today. Want to join us? We can hash over old times.”

  “What old times?” asked Annabelle. “We haven’t known Margo for very long at all. She’s just been with KEY News for a few months.”

  “True,” said Eliza, “but it’s the quality of the time we’ve had that counts. There’s been some pretty intense stuff packed in there.”

  “Rain check,” said Annabelle. “I’ve got a piece about compulsive shopping airing tomorrow and it’s nowhere near ready. But let’s all get together another time soon. We’ll get B.J. and have a little reunion of our Sunrise Suspense Society.”

  Walking the rest of the way across the studio, Annabelle recalled the way the four of them, Eliza, Margo Gonzalez, B.J. D’Elia, and herself, had come together to figure out who had killed Constance Young, the former cohost of KEY to America. Those were circumstances that almost cost Eliza her life. Then Annabelle reflected on what it must be like to be the public figure that Eliza Blake was. The idea of having so many of the personal details of one’s life displayed for anyone and everyone to see caused Annabelle to shiver involuntarily. She felt all of those media stories could be leavi
ng Eliza open and vulnerable.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Here’s what you’re gonna do,” said Popeye after he had tied Mrs. Garcia’s arms behind her back. He pointed a gun at her. “You are going to call the camp and tell them that you’re driving over to pick up Janie. Tell them that something has come up and her mother wants her to come home early.”

  Mrs. Garcia shook her head. “No. I cannot do that.”

  “Oh yes, you can, because, if you don’t, we are going to make sure that Janie has an accident at camp today. If you choose not to make the call and don’t get Janie, then we’ll have no other choice than to have our people at the camp hurt her, badly. You know how freak accidents can happen to little kids. A lifeguard looks the other way and a child drowns. Or a counselor doesn’t pay attention and a kid wanders into the woods and God knows what the kid will find out there. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Mrs. Garcia stared into the man’s dark eyes, peering out from the eyeholes in the mask. She tried to assess the truthfulness of his words. Were there really people at the day camp working with these awful creatures? Was Janie in danger there?

  Carmen Garcia had known fear in her life. The fear of poverty, the fear of not having enough to eat or a dry, safe place to sleep in her native village in Guatemala. She had been scared when she came to America, knowing almost no one, unfamiliar with the new country and its ways. She’d been apprehensive with each job she had taken and every new boss she had tried to please. But not until now, she realized, had she ever experienced abject terror. What are these people capable of doing?

  “How do I know that you won’t hurt Janie if I get her?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  “You don’t. But all I can tell you is, the kid is worth more to us alive than dead. We don’t want to hurt Janie. We want her healthy and in one piece.”

  Mrs. Garcia’s mind raced. If the man was bluffing and there were no accomplices at Camp Musquapsink, then Janie was safer right where she was. But if the man was telling the truth, Janie might be in more danger at camp than she would be if Mrs. Garcia went and got her. At least that way, Mrs. Garcia could try to take care of her.

  “Don’t you think that your boss would want you to be with Janie to protect her?” said Olive Oyl, speaking for the first time. “How do you think Eliza Blake will react when she finds out you had a chance to save her little girl but you decided not to?” It was a woman’s voice, but it was raspy. Mrs. Garcia got the impression that the speaker was trying to disguise her voice. But the woman’s question helped Mrs. Garcia make up her mind.

  “All right,” she said. “I make the call.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The reporter from People asked all the usual questions.

  “How are you finding getting up so early in the morning again?” he inquired.

  Eliza smiled. “Obviously, it’s not the high point of the job, but that’s about the only negative to being back on the show.”

  “There’s been lots of shuffling and trading places among TV news personalities. Katie Couric leaving Today for the CBS Evening News, Meredith Vieira leaving The View to take Katie’s place, Charles Gibson switching from Good Morning America to World News Tonight. What made you make the change from the evening news back to the morning?” he asked.

  “Well, as you know I spent several years hosting KEY to America before I began anchoring the KEY Evening Headlines. I loved the time I spent on the show back then, but when the opportunity arose to take the anchor spot at night, it was something I felt, professionally, I couldn’t, shouldn’t, turn down. On a personal level, I thought the hours would be better, perhaps enabling me to spend more time with my daughter.” Eliza laughed. “But that clearly isn’t the case. Both jobs require an intense time commitment.”

  “So if both jobs take such a huge time investment, why not stay at the Evening Headlines?” the reporter asked.

  Eliza tucked some of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. “I know most people view the evening-news anchor job as the pinnacle in network news, and I suppose it is. But I missed the variety of the morning program. I can be interviewing politicians and heads of state about truly important issues, issues that affect the lives of millions of people and, in the same show, learn how to skateboard or chat about the latest fashion trends.”

  “So would you say that you have a shallow side?” asked the reporter.

  Eliza ignored the zinger. “I’d say that life is multifaceted and that I’m interested in all of it,” she said.

  The reporter flipped over a page of his notebook. “What about your daughter, Janie?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s seven years old, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How does she feel about your return to morning television?”

  “Janie is at an age where she’s just beginning to understand about the notoriety of the job, but it doesn’t really interest her much. She’s more concerned with her sports teams and her dog, Daisy, and the fact that she wants me there when she comes home from school or camp. When I was anchoring the Evening Headlines, I could be there to get her off to school in the morning, but you know how rushed that time always is.”

  The reporter looked at her with a blank expression on his face.

  “Anyway,” Eliza continued, “now I’m home at the end of her day, when things are a little more relaxed and we can spend more time together, so it seems to be working out much better. Take today, for instance. When she gets home from day camp, I’ll be there and we can take a swim together before dinner and she can tell me about her day. I treasure being able to have that time with her.”

  “I suppose that must be especially important for a child who doesn’t have a father.”

  Eliza found herself irritated by the observation. Her daughter was not a victim.

  “Janie does have a father,” Eliza answered evenly. “A father who wanted her very much. Tragically, he died before he could ever hold her in his arms. But Janie is just like every other little kid, with one parent or two or none. She needs attention and love and she gets a lot of both. Janie is my top priority.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The late-model Volvo station wagon pulled in through the stone-pillared entrance to Camp Musquapsink. As Mrs. Garcia parked the car, she was keenly aware of the gun pointed at the back of her head.

  “Remember,” said the sailor, who lay on the backseat. “We have you wired. We can hear everything you say, so don’t try anything funny.”

  “Funny?” said Mrs. Garcia, her voice trembling. “This is not funny.”

  “I mean, don’t try to show them that something is wrong,” said Popeye with exasperation in his voice. “Go inside, get Janie, and come right out again. No stalling. And when you drive out of here, turn the car in the opposite direction from the way we came.”

  Mrs. Garcia reached for the door handle.

  “And remember,” he warned. “We know where your daughter and grandchild live. Westwood is such a nice little town. Think how a town like that would be shaken if something fatal happened to a mother and her baby.”

  Mrs. Garcia panicked at the thought of the monster’s new, terrifying threat. She was shaking as she got out of the car.

  Mrs. Garcia thought of pulling off the electronic gadgetry that had been attached to the rear of the waistband of her skirt and beneath the collar of her cotton blouse. If these bad people couldn’t hear her, she could get help from the camp staff. But if the microphone didn’t transmit any sound, they’d figure out that she was betraying them. Mrs. Garcia didn’t know if the man was only making an empty threat against her daughter and baby granddaughter to scare her, but if that was his aim, he had succeeded. She couldn’t take the chance of having something violent and horrible happening to the ones she loved most.

  Her heart pounded while she listened to the crunch of her footsteps as she walked across the crushed stone that covered the parking lot. When she entered the camp office
, Janie was waiting in a chair at the side of the room. She wore a construction-paper headband, a yellow feather in it, and her face was decorated with the green paint her camp counselor had applied to resemble a Native American in ceremonial dress.

  The child jumped out of her seat. “Where are we going? What are we doing?” The excitement and trust on the little girl’s painted face caused Mrs. Garcia to swallow hard.

  “It’s a surprise, hija. Your mamá is going to meet us at home with a surprise for you.”

  “Tell me,” said Janie. “Tell me.”

  “You have to wait, chiquita. You have to wait.”

  Mrs. Garcia turned and went to the main desk. The camp staff member who was running the desk pushed a leather ledger across the counter.

  “Just sign your name and the time,” she said.

  Mrs. Garcia paused and stared hard in the direction of the young woman, but she was busy collating sheets of paper.

  “What are you doing there?” Mrs. Garcia asked, trying to get the staffer to look up at her so she could mouth or gesture her distress.

  “Just putting together copies of the lyrics for the sing-along.” The staffer stayed focused on her task.

  “Oh? When is the sing-along?” asked Mrs. Garcia as she silently prayed that the woman’s eyes would meet hers. Por favor, Señor, por favor, she prayed. Let the girl look up.