“Friday afternoon,” answered the woman, keeping her head down.
Mrs. Garcia was acutely aware that the man in the car was waiting and listening. She couldn’t risk any more time trying to get the attention of this tonta girl. Mrs. Garcia picked up a pen and wrote in shaky script, “Call police.”
Taking Janie by the hand, Mrs. Garcia walked out to the parking lot. Her breathing was rapid, her face was hot, and beads of perspiration were scattered across her brow.
The young woman staffing the desk never looked up.
CHAPTER 6
When the interview was finished, Eliza posed for some pictures at her desk and then on the KTA set. Doris Brice stood by, stepping in from time to time to powder Eliza’s nose or fix an errant strand of hair. By eleven o’clock the photo session for the magazine spread was over.
“Done for the day?” Doris asked as she put the brushes back in her makeup case.
“Almost,” said Eliza. “I have some phone calls to return. Then I can pack it in.”
On her way back to her office, Eliza met Range Bullock in the hall.
“How’s life in the front row?” Eliza greeted him.
Range rolled his eyes. “It’s different, that’s for sure.”
“Are you missing the day-to-day deadlines?” asked Eliza.
“To tell you the truth, not as much as I thought I would,” said Range. “When I was producing the Evening Headlines, I should have bought stock in Tums. My ulcer has really quieted down since I left.”
Eliza looked at Range. His hair was almost totally white now. His skin was pale and there were deep lines at the side of his mouth.
“Come on, Range. You can’t tell me that being the president of KEY News is easier than being the executive producer of the evening show.”
“It’s different,” Range answered, smiling. “Now I can be the one who gets to make the new executive producer’s life a living hell.”
Eliza smiled back. “Well, you certainly look like you could use a little sun,” she said. “Why don’t you and Louise come over Sunday afternoon? We can lie by the pool and throw something on the barbecue. Murphy and her family are coming over, too.”
“Sounds good,” said Range. “Let me talk to Louise and get back to you, all right?”
“Fine.”
Eliza continued on her way to her office. Paige Tintle, her assistant, was waiting in the reception area.
“For your reading pleasure,” Paige said, handing Eliza a legal-size folder.
Eliza opened the folder and perused the first few documents. “How bad is it this month?” she asked.
“Not bad at all,” said Paige. “In fact, it’s pretty much a lovefest.”
Eliza carried the folder to her desk and sat down. She spent more than half an hour reading through the various articles that the clipping service had provided. There was an article from Good Housekeeping that included pictures of Eliza and Janie making cookies in the kitchen in Ho-Ho-Kus; and there was an article in Woman’s Day that chronicled a day in her life, starting with hosting KTA in the morning, following her around the Broadcast Center afterward, and accompanying her home to meet Janie. A story in People Español highlighted the fact that she had a Guatemalan housekeeper and had taken pictures of Mrs. Garcia at work and with her family, who lived in a nearby town. But it was the piece in Vanity Fair that went into extraordinary detail about Eliza’s background, her youth in Rhode Island, where her parents still lived; her rise through a succession of local stations on her way to the network; her marriage to John Blake, his tragic death, and the nervous collapse she had suffered after giving birth to their child.
Eliza closed the folder. She wasn’t ashamed of that painful period in her life, but she certainly didn’t want to be reminded of it.
CHAPTER 7
Mrs. Garcia crossed the camp parking lot and walked around the front of the station wagon. Janie ran ahead.
“Get in the front seat, Janie,” called Mrs. Garcia.
Janie turned and looked at her quizzically. “The front? I’m supposed to sit in the back.”
“It’s all right this time, Janie,” said Mrs. Garcia. “Do as I say and sit in the front seat with me.”
Janie shrugged but got into the front seat of the car and instinctively reached for the shoulder harness, securing it around her waist. As soon as Mrs. Garcia turned the ignition key, Jane began peppering her with questions.
“What are we going to do? Where are we going? Is Mommy meeting us there?”
“Oye, hija, please be quiet. I have to pay attention,” said Mrs. Garcia as she eased the car through the camp gates.
“Pay attention to what?”
“Pay attention to my driving,” answered Mrs. Garcia.
There was a puzzled expression on Janie’s face. Usually, Mrs. Garcia was happy when they rode in the car together. Sometimes they sang Spanish songs and sometimes they played games. Mrs. Garcia would point out something along the road and teach Janie the word for it in Spanish. But today, Mrs. Garcia looked very worried or very mad. Janie couldn’t decide which one.
“Look, Mrs. Garcia,” said Janie, trying to get the woman’s attention and approval. “Look at the necklace I made this morning.”
Mrs. Garcia glanced over at the beads that encircled Janie’s neck.
“Very nice,” she said.
“See? The beads have letters on them. It spells my name. J-A-N-I-E.” The child patted the beads with satisfaction and waited for her caretaker’s reaction.
But Mrs. Garcia didn’t respond.
“What’s that?” asked Janie, pointing to a squirrel running across the winding country road.
“Una ardilla,” answered Mrs. Garcia.
“And that?” Janie gestured toward a crumbling stone wall at the side of the road.
“Un muro de piedra.”
Janie looked out at the unfamiliar stretch of road. “Hey,” she protested. “This isn’t the way home.”
“We’re not going home, mi hija.”
“Then where are we going?” asked Janie. As she leaned forward in her seat and turned her head, trying to get a full look at Mrs. Garcia’s face, Janie caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision. Restrained by her seat belt, she twisted around as far as she could and saw the distorted face of the man in the backseat.
CHAPTER 8
P.J. Clarke’s at Lincoln Center was crowded at lunchtime, but two women were shown to a table the minute they came in the door. Heads turned as the KEY News anchorwoman and psychological expert walked through the restaurant.
“So how’s everything going?” Dr. Margo Gonzalez asked once they were seated.
Eliza spread her napkin across her lap. “My life is an embarrassment of riches, Margo. Janie is healthy and seemingly happy. KEY let me go back to the mornings. Mack and I are back together again, or as together as you can be when one lives here and the other lives in England. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
A tall, thin young woman dressed in white shirt, black pants, and black tie came up to the table and took their drink orders.
“What are you going to have?” asked Eliza as they scanned the menu.
“I love their crab cakes,” said Margo.
“I’m going for the hamburger,” said Eliza, putting the menu down. “I can’t resist them here.”
“Think it could change anytime soon?” asked Margo after the waitress took their orders.
“Could what change?” asked Eliza.
“Do you think Mack might get transferred back to the States?”
“He’s got his agent lobbying for that, but we’ll see.” Eliza bit her lower lip and looked down at the tablecloth.
“What’s wrong?” asked Margo.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
“All right,” said Margo, “but that face doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’”
Eliza looked up. “I don’t know. I know I don’t have anything to complain about. There are so many people in
the world with real problems, but, honestly, I’ve been feeling sort of anxious lately.”
“I can understand that,” said Margo. “You have lots of wonderful things in your life, but you have a lot of pressure as well. You’re a single mother, you have one of the world’s most visible and demanding jobs, and you’re trying to juggle a long-distance romantic relationship that requires a great deal of trust.”
Eliza smiled. “I didn’t invite you to lunch for a free therapy session, Margo.”
“I know you didn’t,” said Margo. “You’re my friend now, Eliza, and I don’t treat friends. But anytime you want to talk, woman-to-woman, I hope you’ll call on me.”
CHAPTER 9
The black van was hidden from view, parked behind an abandoned dry-cleaning facility in a town fifteen miles north of Camp Musquapsink. The driver waited for the Volvo station wagon to come into view.
Where are they? If everything had gone according to plan, they should have been here by now.
Through the open window, she thought she heard a car approaching. She strained to see the vehicle that should be coming around the corner of the building, and started to pull on her mask. But instead of the white station wagon she was expecting, a red convertible swung into view.
The top was down and she could see four young people in the car, two boys and two girls. High school kids, she thought. Maybe they were sneaking back here for a little make-out session. If that was the case, they’d be almost as distressed to see her as she was to see them.
As the convertible approached, she decided she had no choice other than to play it cool. Quickly pulling off the mask and dropping it in her lap, she looked directly at the convertible’s passengers as the car passed alongside the van. The convertible circled the parked vehicle and then drove back in the direction from which it had come.
Steady, she thought. Steady. It was just kids. They weren’t going to be paying any attention to news reports over the days to come. And even if they did hear about everything, they weren’t going to make any connection between the woman in the black van behind the old dry-cleaning plant and the kidnapping of Eliza Blake’s daughter.
Tears were running down Janie’s cheeks.
Mrs. Garcia glanced over from the driver’s seat. “Don’t cry, hija,” she said in a soothing voice. “Everything going to be okay.”
“I want Mommy,” Janie sobbed. She raised her hands to wipe at her tears, smearing the green face paint.
“And your mommy wants you, too, kiddo. You can count on that,” said Popeye in the backseat of the station wagon.
Janie felt the hot breath, seeping through the mouth opening of his mask, against the nape of her neck. She reached backward to wipe the feeling away. The man grabbed her hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said.
“Nothing.” Janie sniffled.
“It better be nothing. I’ve heard you’re a smart little girl. So don’t do anything stupid. And stop that damned crying,” he demanded. “Or I’ll give you something to really cry about.”
Janie tried to control her sobs, but realizing with every minute she was getting farther and farther from her mother, her crying continued. Soon she was hiccupping as well.
“For God’s sake, get her to stop, will you?” demanded Popeye, pressing the tip of his gun against the back of Mrs. Garcia’s head.
“She can’t help it,” said Mrs. Garcia. “She scared.”
“What the hell good are you if you can’t control the kid?” the man asked angrily.
The tone of his voice made Janie sit up straighter. What if the man hurt Mrs. Garcia? What if he took her away? Then she would have no one to take care of her and she would be alone with the horrible, smelly man. Janie willed herself to stop crying, but the hiccupping continued.
“Turn in up there,” Popeye instructed.
The station wagon slowed and pulled into a deserted parking lot where weeds were growing up through the cracks in the macadam.
“Now drive around to the back of the building.”
Janie looked up over the dashboard, trying to see what was ahead.
“Pull up next to the van and park,” the sailor commanded.
Mrs. Garcia did as she was told. As the Volvo came to a stop, the woman in the front seat of the black van finished sliding the mask over her head.
“Now, both of you, get out.”
Mrs. Garcia and Janie obeyed while the man kept his gun aimed at them. A toothy-grinned Olive Oyl got out of the van and, walking around to the back, opened its double doors.
“Go ahead,” said Popeye. “Get on back there.”
Mrs. Garcia took Janie’s hand and started walking slowly, wondering if there was any chance at all that they could break away and run. But the gun aimed in their direction made the odds of getting away next to nil. Even if she were willing to try anything herself, she couldn’t risk Janie’s life.
The sailor got out of the backseat of the station wagon and followed them. As they got close to the van’s rear doors, Olive Oyl held out two cords made of rope. She swapped the rope for the man’s gun and kept it pointed in the direction of Mrs. Garcia and Janie while Popeye expertly tied their wrists behind their backs.
“Okay, climb in,” the man growled.
Mrs. Garcia struggled to lift her leg high enough to get a foothold on the van floor.
“You should get yourself on a diet, lady,” Popeye grunted as he got behind Mrs. Garcia and tried to lift her. With his pushing her, Mrs. Garcia rolled awkwardly into the back of the van.
“Now, little princess, it’s your turn.”
As the man reached down to lift Janie, the little girl leaned forward and bit him as hard as she could.
“Jesus Christ,” the man yelled, pulling his wounded hand from Janie’s mouth while smacking the child’s face with the other. He ripped the feathered construction-paper band from Janie’s head and threw it to the ground.
“Calm down, sailor,” said the woman. “Get hold of yourself. That temper of yours could ruin everything.”
CHAPTER 10
A blue Lincoln Town Car turned into the driveway on Saddle Ridge Road. The driver got out and opened the rear passenger door.
“Thanks,” said Eliza as she emerged. “See you in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am, see you then.”
As the car pulled out of the driveway, Eliza walked around to the backyard. She could hear Daisy’s loud barking. Eliza strode out over the expansive lawn to the doghouse.
“Hey, Daisy,” she said as she bent down and smoothed the dog’s golden coat. “How are you, girl?”
Usually a loving pat and a few gentle words were all it took for Daisy to settle right down. But this afternoon, the dog continued to bark, rapidly wagging her tail.
“What’s the matter, girl?” asked Eliza. “Have you been out here too long?”
Eliza unclipped the dog from the leash. Daisy bounded for the house as Eliza followed.
Right away, she noticed that the French doors that led from the patio to the interior of the house were open. Eliza knew that Mrs. Garcia liked to let fresh air in the house. Having grown up in Guatemala, central air-conditioning was foreign to Mrs. Garcia and she found it too cold and too stuffy. The housekeeper thought the air inside the house needed to circulate more. Leaving the doors open whenever she could was her solution.
But Eliza noticed that the sliding screens had been left wide open as well. Maybe Mrs. Garcia had entered with her arms full of groceries and forgotten to come back and close the screen doors.
Eliza walked through the open doorway. “Mrs. Garcia,” she called, “I’m home.”
The house was quiet.
Eliza put down her bag on the kitchen counter and took a bottle of water from the refrigerator before heading upstairs.
“Mrs. Garcia?” she called when she reached the top of the staircase.
No response. Eliza went from room to room, the thought crossing her mind that Mrs. Garcia could h
ave had a heart attack or something and could be lying somewhere, unable to answer. It was a relief to find each room in order, with no sign of Mrs. Garcia.
Glancing at her watch, Eliza calculated that it would be another hour and a half before Janie arrived home from camp. Maybe Mrs. Garcia had gone out to do some errands before Janie got back. A check of the garage revealed that the station wagon wasn’t there.
Yes, thought Eliza. That’s what must have happened. Mrs. Garcia had gone out to the store or the post office. Eliza knew that Mrs. Garcia made quick visits, if there was time after she got her work done, to her daughter and grandbaby in Westwood. Maybe she was over there. But wherever Mrs. Garcia had gone, Eliza had absolutely no doubt that she would be back in time to meet Janie’s bus.
Eliza changed into shorts, a sleeveless top, and a pair of sandals. Then she went downstairs again to check the mail. In the den there was nothing on her desk, where Mrs. Garcia always left any envelopes and packages.
She walked outside, down the driveway, and opened the mailbox. Diagonally across the road, she spotted her neighbor doing the same thing.
“Hi, Susan,” Eliza called out and waved.
Susan Feeney waved back. “How are you?” she called.
“Fine thanks,” said Eliza. “You?”
“Thrilled to finally have all the workmen out of the house,” said Susan, walking closer so she wouldn’t have to yell. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have that addition finished and have the house to myself again.”
“Well, it looks wonderful,” said Eliza. “They really did a nice job.”
“Thanks,” Susan said. “The joys of home ownership never end, do they? There’s always something that needs doing. What are you having done now?”
“What do you mean?” asked Eliza.
“I saw the work van in your driveway this morning.”
It Only Takes a Moment Page 3