Mary Jane Clark - It Only Takes a Moment

I t Only Takes a Moment is the story Ive wanted to tell but was afraid to write because it deals with kidnapping, a subject that has frightened me since I was young, for reasons beyond the normal ones.

My father was a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, assigned to high-profile kidnapping and extortion cases. While my father would never, at the time, tell us about his cases, it was easy enough to read about them in the newspaper or hear about them on the radio and television. And because I knew my father was working on solving these crimes, I paid a lot of attention to the details at an impressionable agedetails which fascinated me while at the same time terrified me and led to a shivering dread that has followed me throughout my life.

Until now, its always felt as though writing about a kidnapping might somehow tempt fate. But today my children are grown and I dont worry (as much) about anyone stealing them. My father is eighty-one years old, and there was no time like the present to harvest his memoriesmemories which fed my imagination and led to this story. So, first of all, let me thank Frederick V. Behrends, my dad; and my mother, Doris Boland Behrends, who met and married while working at the FBI.

My parents had two daughters, so I suppose if there was no FBI there would have been no me. The FBI also went on to assist me by training Margot Dennedy and Cathy Begley, special agents past and present, who generously lent their expertise for this story. I appreciate their considerable knowledge; I treasure their loyal friendship.

Another law enforcement pro, Stan Romaine, former director of CBS Corporate Security, came through for me yet again, this time providing the background on what a television network would do if the child of one of its stars was kidnapped. Thank you, Stan, for consistently answering my questions and sharing your wealth of experience.

In just another instance of the support he has given me over almost twenty years, Dr. Steve Simring offered his prescription for the best drugs to accomplish what I needed to get done in the story.

Phil Doyle gave me a tutorial on paintball warfare. Thank you for that, Phil, and for being such a good sport when your character had to die.

Beth Tindall and Colleen Kenny continue to inject their skill and creativity into www.maryjaneclark.com. Nice work, ladies.

Through the marvels of the Internet, Father Paul Holmes was able to provide his invaluable help all the way from Italy, where he was on sabbatical trying to get his own book written. Tante, tante grazie, Paolo.

Editor Carrie Feron, a mother herself, understood my terror of kidnapping. She shepherded the book through its stages, asking the right questions and contributing her smart thoughts to make the story better. Tessa Woodward paid exacting attention to so many, many details. Sharyn Rosenblum is the most enthusiastic and savvy publicist any author could want. There are so many talented and dedicated people at William Morrow/HarperCollins and I worry that I will leave someone out when thanking them for what theyve done. Apologizing in advance for overlooking anyone, Im grateful to Lisa Gallagher, Michael Morrison, Jane Friedman, Lynn Grady, Liate Stehlik, Adrienne Pietro, Debbie Stier, Tavia Kawalchuk, Lauren Naefe, and Kristie Macrides. Josh Marwell, Carla Parker, Brian Grogan, Mike Brennan, and Mike Spradlin constitute a powerful sales force.

Special thanks to Victoria Mathews, who did a fine job of copyediting, and Thomas Egner, who designed such a haunting cover.

Much gratitude as well to Rachel Brenner, Mark Gustafson, Michael Morris, Rhonda Rose, Jeff Rogart, Dale Schmidt, and Donna Waitkus for placing those important orders.

Peggy Gould, I thank God every day for you and the other devoted and extraordinary people at SHS. Without you, I couldnt write the book.

Finally, some things may only take a moment, but building a publishing career isnt one of them. My deep appreciation to Jennifer Rudolph Walsh and Joni Evans, who continue to guide mine.

L ook! Janie called out. Shes wearing it, Mrs. Garcia. Mommys wearing the bracelet.

Carmen Garcia glanced up from gathering the childs shiny brown hair in a ponytail. The middle-aged woman leaned forward to get a better look at the image on the television screen. Eliza Blake, clad in a cornflower-colored blouse that complemented her blue eyes, was smiling from the set of KEY to America as she and a cookbook author demonstrated how to organize a summer barbecue. As the camera cut to a close-up of her hand rubbing a mixture of spices on the meat, the red, yellow, and blue plastic beads that encircled her wrist came into clear view.

S. Mrs. Garcia smiled. Your mam likes the bracelet you made at camp very much.

How do you say bracelet in Spanish? Janie asked.

Pulsera, Mrs. Garcia answered. Now, hurry. Eat your breakfast. The bus will be here soon.

Janie, wearing navy blue shorts and a white Camp Musquapsink T-shirt, took a seat at the kitchen table while Daisy, the yellow Labrador retriever, positioned herself at the childs feet. Janie dutifully ate the cereal and chunks of cantaloupe that Mrs. Garcia had put out for her while the housekeeper consulted the calendar hanging on the refrigerator door.

Its Native American Day, Mrs. Garcia announced. You have archery and horseback riding.

I know, said Janie, making a face. I hate archery. Its too hard.

The more you practice, the easier it will get. Do your best, mi hija. Just do the best you can. That makes your mam happy.

Bows and arrows are dumb, declared Janie. But were going to have our faces painted. That will be fun. The little girls eyes widened with pride. And you know what else? Musquapsink is a Native American name.

It is?

So is Ho-Ho-Kus, Janie reported, proud that she could teach Mrs. Garcia something. There are lots of Native American names around here. Pascack and Hackensack and Kinderkamack. My counselor told us.

Mrs. Garcia watched proprietarily as Janie tackled her bowl of cereal. She was such a healthy-looking child. A light suntan and a sprinkling of freckles covered her cheeks and straight little nose. Her blue eyes sparkled, just like her mothers did. Her permanent teeth seemed to be coming in white and, so far, straight. Her legs and arms, which protruded from the day camp uniform, were well-toned and sturdy.

Feeling Mrs. Garcias eyes on her, Janie looked up. What are you staring at? she asked.