It Only Takes a Moment (20 page)

F
eeling her way in the darkness, Mrs. Garcia inched toward the steps. She jumped in fright as something lightly grazed her forehead.

What was that?

She stood for a minute and composed herself. Then, slowly, she raised her arms and groped tentatively through the black air. Her fingers touched a string. When she pulled on it, a bald, low-watt bulb barely lit the underground room.

Unaccustomed to any light, Mrs. Garcia momentarily squeezed her eyes shut, but she gradually adjusted and was able to see the place where she was held captive. There was not much to the space, a square, windowless room with walls made of two-by-fours spaced about two feet apart. In between the wooden struts were sandbags piled from floor to ceiling. The shelves that lined the walls were mostly bare save for a few empty baskets and the mason jars she had felt earlier. Ravenous, she considered opening one of them now to savor its contents but, not knowing how long they had been stored down there, she thought better of it. Hunger was preferable to food poisoning.

She noticed there were two pipes, one at the ceiling and the other
down near the floor, probably designed to afford ventilation of the gases given off by the fruits and vegetables once stored in the baskets. Mrs. Garcia was relieved to realize she’d have enough oxygen.

Certain the only way to get out was through the trapdoor at the top of the stairs, Mrs. Garcia climbed the first few wooden steps. She positioned herself beneath the door, crouched down, and then sprang up, ramming her shoulder upward. She winced with pain but the door did not budge.

Mrs. Garcia forced herself to try again, but this time one of the rotted steps gave way beneath her and she crashed to the cement floor.

T
he smell of corned beef and vinegar permeated the hot air in the narrow stairwell as the FBI agents carefully climbed upward.

When they got to the landing, they separated, some to one side of the door, some to the other. A few positioned themselves across the hall and on the stairs. All were determined that no one inside the apartment would escape.

He was sitting at his desk, preparing his next letter, a list of instructions on where and how the ransom money should be delivered. He went through several drafts, not happy with any of them.

He sat back in his chair and stared at the computer screen. There was so much riding on this, his future, really. He had to get it right. Two million dollars would enable him to get out of this dump, leave his lousy job, and devote himself full-time to his writing. After a while he might even be able to use this experience in his fiction. What a story that would be. Hollywood would surely come calling on that one. He would finally live his dream.

The persistent banging at the door wrenched him from his reverie.

T
he people who passed by on Ninth Avenue scarcely glanced at the television cameraman and his female companion staked out on the sidewalk in front of the delicatessen.

“That’s one of the things I love most about New York,” said B.J. “Nobody’s all that impressed with anything. They couldn’t give a damn what we’re doing.”

“They’d be impressed if they thought that Janie Blake was inside and the FBI were in there trying to rescue her,” said Annabelle.

B.J. smiled. “God, I hope I’ll be getting pictures of her any second,” he said. “And it’ll be exclusive video to boot. Nobody else is out here. I can picture Linus jumping up and down with glee.”

“When they start coming out, you’re on your own,” said Annabelle. “Because, as soon as I see Janie, I’m going to get on the phone and call Eliza.”

The door opened. An FBI agent came out of the building, walked to one of the SUVs, and opened the back door. He was followed by a cluster of
agents who surrounded a disheveled-looking man, holding his arms as they escorted him to the vehicle.

B.J.’s camera recorded their movements.

Annabelle moved closer to the doorway, eager to view the child being carried safely out of the building. She strained to see if there were more people coming down the stairwell.

There weren’t.

P
hil Doyle needed a mental health day or, at least, a mental health afternoon. He deserved one. He worked hard, made a good living, took care of his wife and two sons. But sometimes, he just needed to get away by himself and have some fun.

After lunch, he got his car out of the company garage and started up the West Side Highway. As he drove over the George Washington Bridge, he listened to the radio and heard the latest news on the kidnapping. The FBI had raided the apartment of some guy who had sent a ransom demand. The feds had the guy in custody, but there was no child in the apartment and the authorities were convinced Janie had never been there at all.

An hour and a half later, Phil was in the Poconos, parking his car outside the lodge. He left his cell phone in the car, knowing from experience that there was no service where he was going. He went inside, paid, registered, and signed a waiver that he wouldn’t sue anyone if he got hurt.

“Want walkie-talkies?” asked the man at the desk.

“Nah,” said Phil. “I’d get them if one of my sons was with me, but I’m by myself. I don’t really need one.”

Phil went outside again and boarded the bus that took him up to the
meeting post. Once there, Phil had his air tank filled, got his ammunition, and took possession of his rented gun, a Tippmann 98. Though, even in the woods, it was a hot day, Phil pulled the camouflage jumpsuit over his shorts and T-shirt. He’d have a better chance of survival if he blended in with the environment.

Phil was introduced to the man who was going to referee the fight and shook hands with his opponents, the other guys who had come for the same thrill as Phil. Together, they all hiked up to the field.

It wasn’t a field in the agricultural sense, open and uncovered, with no place to hide. Instead, it was an expansive, seemingly boundless area of mountainous terrain covered with tall trees and thick underbrush, full of rocks, caves, and streams. It was in the middle of nowhere and it was a field of war.

Adjusting his safety mask and the baseball cap that covered his head, Phil waited for the horn to blow.

Everybody scrambled, running to find the best position. Phil looked for a spot where he would be hidden, a place where he’d be able to pick off his opponents without their ever knowing what had hit them. He moved from cover to cover, from tree to tree, from rock to ditch to cave, crouching to make himself as small as possible. At each place, he stared through the plastic shield that covered his eyes and managed to get off several shots. But Phil didn’t shoot just for the sake of shooting. He conserved his ammunition, hoping that, when the time was right, he would let loose with a barrage that would annihilate his enemies.

“I
shouldn’t be surprised that some misguided individual would actually try to take advantage of this nightmare,” Eliza said softly, “but, at the same time, I just can’t believe it.”

No one else in the kitchen said a word. Mack reached out and put his hand on Eliza’s shoulder. Katharine and Paul stared down at the table, desolate with disappointment. The FBI agents trained their eyes on the view through the French doors out to the yard. Even Daisy seemed to understand the anguish that permeated the atmosphere in the room. The dog walked up to Eliza and rubbed gently against her mistress’s leg to comfort her.

Eliza bent over and stroked the dog’s golden coat. “You’re a good girl, Daisy,” she whispered. “A good girl.”

The dog looked up at her and Eliza remembered how excited Janie had been when the yellow Lab puppy had arrived in their lives. Eliza had been skeptical about the idea of having a pet at first, but Janie had won her over with her enthusiasm and love for the sweet little dog. As Daisy grew ever larger over the next two years, Janie played with her, cuddled with her, and learned early lessons of responsibility as the child made sure there was water in the dog’s bowl and that she brushed Daisy’s
soft coat. Daisy, in turn, allowed herself to be hugged, hard and often. She fetched the plastic toys that Janie threw, followed her young owner around, and watched over her.

“Are you feeling that you didn’t protect our girl, Daisy?” asked Eliza plaintively. “I feel that way, too.”

The dog nuzzled Eliza’s thigh.

“It’s all right, Daisy. It’s got to be all right,” said Eliza, her voice breaking. “But we have to get Janie and Mrs. Garcia back. How are we going to get them back?”

“Do you want to take a call from Annabelle?” Mack asked.

Eliza nodded and accepted the phone from him. She walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

“I’m so sorry, Eliza. To have your hopes raised like that is really terrible.”

“You have no idea.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

Leaning against the wall, Eliza slid down to the floor and pulled her knees to her chest. She pounded her fist on the tile floor. “Damn it, who are these people and why have they invaded my life like this? How are we going to find them?”

“Let the FBI and the police do their jobs, Eliza. That’s what they’re trained to do.”

“They aren’t infallible, Annabelle. And honestly, I don’t think I should leave it entirely in their hands.”

“What do you mean?” asked Annabelle.

“You know the psychic I told you about?”

“Yeah, what about her?”

“She was back this morning and she told me that the kidnappers had
not
sent a ransom demand. When Stephanie said that, I thought it showed she really wasn’t tuned in to anything, because we
had
gotten a ransom
note. But, now, I’m thinking she was right because the ransom demand
wasn’t
from the real kidnappers.”

“Oh, Eliza.” Annabelle’s voice was soothing. “I don’t think you should be putting faith in that woman, I really don’t.”

“She said she dreamed that Janie was near water,” said Eliza.

“That’s a pretty broad category,” said Annabelle. “Pretty much everybody is near some kind of water. I’m holding a bottle of it in my hand right now.”

“Moving or rushing water, Annabelle.”

“Still a wide category. Near a beach, near a river, near a waterfall, near a fountain?”

“And the letter
M,
” Eliza continued, ignoring Annabelle’s skepticism. “Stephanie sees the letter
M
figuring prominently.”

“Manhattan?” asked Annabelle. “That’s where you work every day. It could be Musquapsink—after all, that’s where Janie was taken. Or maybe it’s Mackinac, Michigan. That has
two M
s and it has
water,
too.”

“I see what you mean,” said Eliza, suddenly embarrassed to mention Stephanie’s bridal veil vision. “Still, I just have a feeling that Stephanie knows what she’s talking about.” Eliza felt for the zodiac medallion in her pocket and hoped that Stephanie could somehow lead them to Janie and Mrs. Garcia.

I
n the early afternoon, the figure in the Olive Oyl mask came in with a tray and laid it on the table. She leaned forward and shook Janie’s arm.

“Come on. You’ve got to get up and eat something,” she said. “You’ve been sleeping since you got home from the Urgentcare last night.”

Janie opened her eyes, looked at the grotesque mask, and closed them tight again.

The woman put her hand on the child’s forehead. “You’re still hot,” she said. “Wait here while I go get the thermometer.”

Janie waited until she heard the footsteps leave the room, then she opened her eyes. She got up and went to the television and switched it on, keeping the sound low. She hoped she would see Mommy again, like she had early this morning before the bad people woke up. She had turned on the television and had seen her mommy talking to her, telling her she was coming to get her. Mommy said it again and again as Janie changed channels on all the morning news shows.

Yet as much as she was relieved to see Mommy, Janie was worried more than ever. The people on the television said that Mommy and the
police weren’t having any luck in finding her and Mrs. Garcia. Why did they look in Kentucky? They should be looking here. But Janie didn’t even know where
here
was.

Maybe Daisy can help Mommy. Maybe Daisy can use her nose and follow the trail to find me and Mrs. Garcia.

T
hroughout the morning, people wandered into the community room at St. Luke’s Catholic Church in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey, as word spread about the volunteer center being set up there. By lunchtime, the crowd was so large that the pastor of the church offered the use of the gymnasium at the neighboring school as well. He also lent a fax machine and a copier and gave his permission for coffee and doughnuts to be served in the school cafeteria.

Susan Feeney stood in the middle of the community room, clipboard in hand, taking names, addresses, and phone numbers and gradually giving the volunteers assignments. Several offered to bring in their laptop computers. Many agreed to put up flyers. Others said that, when the time came, they wanted to be part of any search party.

Having spent much of the night on the Internet, reading about missing children and suggestions on what should be done to recover them, Susan had learned that it could do some good to have the media aware of a volunteer center. She sent one of the volunteers over to Saddle Ridge Road to alert the news people staked out in front of Eliza’s house. Within the hour, five news crews, eager for any fresh video elements, showed up to record what was happening.

Susan found microphones being thrust in her face. She answered the questions about what the volunteer center planned to do the best she could and assured them that she would make the flyers available to them. She also announced that a candlelight vigil was going to be held that night.

As the news people began to straggle out, one of them lingered to introduce herself. “I’m Annabelle Murphy, a producer at KEY News and a good friend of Eliza’s. I just wanted to thank you for all you are doing.”

Susan extended her hand. “No reason to thank me,” she said. “I wish I could do more, but this is all I can think of. I still feel so guilty that I didn’t make it a point to get that license plate.”

Annabelle made the connection. “Ah, so you’re the neighbor who saw the van.”

“Guilty,” said Susan. “Every time anyone from the media has rung my doorbell over the last few days, I’ve either not answered or I’ve made my husband get it. I just couldn’t face them. I’m only talking about it to you now because you’re a friend of Eliza’s.”

“And you live across the street from her?” asked Annabelle.

“Across the street and down a ways,” said Susan.

“You wouldn’t want to talk about what you saw that morning now, for the camera, would you?”

Susan looked uncomfortable. “No. Not really.”

“It might be helpful to other people,” Annabelle urged. “Make them realize that they should pay attention to anything that seems out of the ordinary in their neighborhoods.”

“Well,” Susan said, wavering. “Maybe something positive could come out of my mistake.”

“Great,” said Annabelle, waving at B.J. to come over. As the cameraman attached a small microphone to Susan’s shirt, Annabelle knew that they were going to win kudos back at the Broadcast Center. She was scoring an exclusive interview with the only person who had seen the alleged kidnapping vehicle.

The interview itself didn’t provide any new information, but having Susan Feeney on camera, talking about what she had seen, was a valuable element to have. Annabelle was certain the video would be used on the
Evening Headlines
and tomorrow morning on
KEY to America.

As B.J. removed the microphone and began to pack up his gear, the women continued to chat.

“You know, if positions had been reversed, and my child had been taken and Eliza hadn’t paid attention when she could have, I’m afraid I would have been angry with her,” said Susan. “But, instead, when I talked about it with her yesterday, Eliza was very understanding. The only thing she asked me to do was go over and check on Mrs. Garcia’s family.”

“Have you done that yet?” asked Annabelle.

“Not yet, but I’m going over there soon.”

Annabelle immediately saw the opportunity. “Mind if we tag along?” she asked.

The KEY News car followed the late-model BMW the few miles into Westwood. As they pulled up, Annabelle and B.J. saw police cars parked in front of the rundown two-story house. A cluster of people who looked Hispanic were gathered in the driveway.

B.J. immediately got out of the car, unloaded his camera gear from the back, and started shooting. Annabelle went over to one of the cops.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“And you are?” asked the officer.

“Sorry,” said Annabelle as she pulled out her press pass and held it up for his inspection. “This is the house where the family of the woman who disappeared with Eliza Blake’s child live, right?”

“Used to live,” answered the policeman. “It looks like they’ve taken off.”

“Why do you think they would do that?” Annabelle asked.

The officer shrugged. “Look around,” he said. “See these people? Not one of them is in this country legally. Maria and Vicente Rochas are no different.”

Annabelle looked at the quiet people standing in the driveway. Their expressions were solemn, worried even, but none of them was running away.

“For the most part, we turn a blind eye,” the policeman continued. “We know they live here, dozens of them sometimes packed into one house. But most of the time they stay quiet and don’t bother anybody. They do the jobs that nobody else wants to do anymore, and they do those jobs for very little pay. So even though some people resent it if they’re taking advantage of social services, others like having them around for the cheap labor.”

Annabelle nodded. “But they all know they could be sent back at any time, right?”

“Yep. And they’ve seen it happen, too. So most of them try to stay under the radar. But this week, with the abduction of the Blake kid and her nanny, the Rochas couple were under our scrutiny. That’s what made them run.”

Annabelle called Eliza and told her that the Rochas family had fled.

“I don’t understand,” said Eliza.

“The cops were breathing down their necks,” said Annabelle, “and they were scared.” Annabelle paused. “You don’t think…?” Her voice trailed off.

“I don’t think
what
?” asked Eliza.

“That they have something to do with the abductions and that’s why they left?”

“No, I do not,” Eliza said firmly. “Maria and Vicente Rochas are honest, hardworking people who want to stay in America rather than go back to a poor and dangerous country that holds little future for them. They
thought the authorities were going to arrest them—and, at the very least, deport them. I’m certain that’s why they ran.”

Driving back to the Broadcast Center, Annabelle voiced her frustration. “We’re spending all our time gathering video elements and interviews for the day-of-air story and we aren’t doing enough to find Janie.”

B.J. slowed as they approached the E-ZPass toll lane to the George Washington Bridge. “It’s pretty hard to investigate when you have specific assignments on what you have to get for the piece,” he said. “They’re paying us to get what they want for their coverage of what’s happening today.”

“There just aren’t enough hours,” Annabelle said as she looked out the car window to the Hudson River and the New York City skyline. “You know, it’s terrible. Eliza is so desperate, she’s clinging to anything that psychic says. The latest is, Janie is near water and something with the letter
M
.”

“Minnesota, Mississippi, Massachusetts, Maine?” said B.J., smiling in spite of himself.

“Ridiculous, huh?” said Annabelle.

“Sure,” said B.J. “You need something a lot more specific than that to go on.”

It had been nagging at her since her conversation with Eliza, and now Annabelle remembered. The cookies with the disturbing note written to Eliza. The cookies from the Marzipan Bakery.

She had looked the town up on the map but hadn’t gone any further than that because she hadn’t had the time. They’d been busy with what turned out to be the bogus ransom demand and then shooting at the volunteer center and at the Guatemalan family’s home. Tomorrow, Linus would surely have more ideas about what he wanted them to do and, again, the day wouldn’t be their own.

“I have an idea,” said Annabelle. “How would you like to pick me up at three
A.M.
?”

“I’d rather stick pins in my eyes,” said B.J.

“Seriously, Beej.” She told him about the Marzipan Bakery.

“And you want to go there because of the letter
M
?” B.J. asked incredulously.

“No, I want to go there because of the creepy letter sent to Eliza,” said Annabelle, “but I guess the
M
thing is the icing on top. Come on. It’s only about an hour’s drive.”

“Yeah? And what do you think we’re going to get at four o’clock in the morning?”

“Baking is done overnight, so somebody will be there,” said Annabelle. “We can ask our questions, see what we can find out, see what video you can shoot, and be back in New York before our paid workday is scheduled to start.”