They hit crafts stores, crisscrossing Manhattan on the way downtown. Eve had no idea there was so much involved in the making of so many things easily available ready-made. When she expressed the opinion, Peabody smiled and fingered some brightly colored thread sold in hanks.
“There’s a lot of satisfaction in making something yourself. Picking the colors, the materials, the pattern. Individualizing it, and seeing it come to life.”
“You say so.”
“A lot of craftsmen and artisans in my family. Goes with the whole Free-Ager philosophy. I’m pretty handy myself, but I don’t have a lot of time for it. I still have the tea cozy my grandmother helped me crochet when I was ten.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“What, the tea cozy or crocheting?”
“Either, and I find I have no interest in finding out.” She studied the shelves and displays, full of supplies and finished products. “A lot of the clerks we’ve talked to remember Maplewood. Don’t see a lot of men in these joints.”
“Needlework remains primarily the work and/or hobby of the female. Too bad. It can be very relaxing. My uncle Jonas knits up a storm and claims it’s one of the reasons he’s a healthy, vital one hundred and six. Or seven. Maybe it’s eight.”
Eve didn’t bother to respond but headed out of the shop. “Nobody, thus far, remembers any man bothering Elisa or any other customer for that matter. Nobody asking questions about her, loitering around. Same kind of ribbon. There has to be a connection.”
“He could’ve bought it anywhere, any time. He might’ve seen her in one of the stores, then gone back later to buy his own. You know, they have these craft fairs, too. He could’ve bumped into her at one of those. I bet she’d go to the fairs, maybe take the kids.”
“That’s a good line. Check it out with the Vanderleas.” She stood on the sidewalk, thumbs in front pockets, fingers tapping idly on her hips as people streamed or trudged around her. “Do that later. They need some space. We’re only a few blocks from the shelter. We’ll ask Louise about the witch.”
“Sensitives aren’t necessarily witches, just as witches aren’t necessarily sensitives. Hey, a glide-cart!”
“Wait, wait!” Eve pressed a hand to her temple, stared at the sky. “I’m getting a vision. It’s you stuffing a soy dog in your mouth.”
“I was going to go for the fruit kabob and perhaps a small, walkaway salad. But now you’ve put the damn dog in my head and I have to have it.”
“I knew that. Get me some fries, tube of Pepsi.”
“I knew that,” Peabody replied. But she was too happy with the idea she’d actually get lunch to complain about paying for it.
Chapter 4
It didn’t look like a refuge, Eve thought. It looked, from the outside at least, like a well-maintained, modest, multiresident building. Middle-income apartments, sans doorman. The casual observer wouldn’t note anything special about it, even if he bothered to look.
And that, Eve reminded herself, was precisely the point. The women and children who fled here didn’t want anyone to notice.
But if you were a cop, you’d probably note and approve of the first-rate security. Full-scan cams, cleverly disguised in the simple trims and moldings. Privacy screens activated at all windows.
If you were a cop and knew Roarke, you could be certain there were motion pads at every access, with top-of-the-line alarms. Entrée would require palm plate identification, keypad code, and/or clearance from inside. There would be twenty-four-hour security—probably human and droid—and you could bet your ass the entire place would lock down like a vault at any attempt to break in.
Not just a refuge, but a fortress.
Dochas, Gaelic for “hope,” was as safe—probably safer due to its anonymity—as the White House.
If she’d known such places existed, would she have fled to one instead of wandering the streets of Dallas, a child broken, traumatized, and lost?
No. Fear would have sent her running away from hope.
Even now, knowing better, she felt uneasy stepping up to the door. Alleys were easier, she thought, because you knew there were rats in the dark. You expected them.
But she reached up to ring the bell.
Before she could signal, the door opened.
Dr. Louise Dimatto, that blond bundle of energy, greeted them.
She wore a pale blue lab coat over a simple black shirt and trousers. Two tiny gold hoops glinted in her left ear, with a third in the right. There were no rings on her competent fingers, and a plain, serviceable wrist unit sat on her left hand.