The Stolen - Jason Pinter [42]
Meriden, though, was no Greenwich.
What struck me first was that the Meriden train station
resembled less of an actual station and more like a glorified bus stop. A small hut was the only building on the
gravelly lot. It had boarded-up windows, graffiti sprayed
layer upon layer. A ticket vending machine sat lonely
outside the hut, like a relic from the 1970s. I wasn't even
sure if it accepted credit cards. A dirty, bearded man sat
on a bench fully asleep, his yellow windbreaker also
looking as if it hadn't been removed since long before the
man's last shave. He looked comfortable, and clearly
wasn't waiting for the train.
The air was cool, but I had no doubt the day would grow
hotter throughout the morning. I buttoned up my jacket,
stuck my hands in my pockets, and waited. The surrounding buildings were low, squat, though they seemed to have
an air of vigor. Fresh coats of paint. Newly cemented sidewalks, clear of footprints and cracks. It looked like a city
wrenching itself toward respectability, while experiencing
a few hiccups along the way.
As well as brushing up on the Oliveira case file, I also
read about the demographics and income of the city of
Meriden, specifically how both had changed over the years
during Michelle Oliveira's disappearance. In 1997, when
Michelle was abducted, more than forty percent of
Meriden residents lived below the poverty line. The
median income was a shade over $28,000. And more than
sixty percent of residents had one or more children.
Today, the median income was more than $45,000, and
was growing at a rate far larger than the national average.
Plus, only nineteen percent of residents currently lived
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below the poverty line. Yet less than half of residents now
lived with children. I wondered if Michelle's abduction
had anything to do with this. Whether the horrific nature
of Michelle's disappearance convinced families it simply
wasn't safe to raise a family here.
From what I could tell, this was a city that seemed to
want to right the wrongs of its past. A city that desperately
wanted to prove it was safe for girls like Michelle. And
whatever part of the city didn't want to improve, it would
remain contentedly criminal. A place where a girl could
be abducted, and her abductors could remain free. That
part of the city would be what it always was, and whatever
happened was simply God's--or the criminal's--will.
I stood outside for a moment, unsure of what to look for,
until a honking car horn brought my attention to the
Chrysler sitting alone in the lot. A woman was in the driver's
seat. I could see her through the windshield, an uncomfortable look on her face. She didn't want to be here. I walked
over, peered in through the passenger-side window.
"Delilah Lancaster?" I said.
She nodded, said, "Get in."
I obeyed. She started the engine as I buckled my seat
belt. We peeled away from the station, leaving the tracks
in our wake.
Her car was if not new then new er. A black 300 model,
it had less than ten thousand miles on it, and there were
no telltale signs of wear and tear on the interior. A classical station played on the radio, and I noticed Delilah's
hand moving in nearly perfect rhythm, sliding gently up
and down the steering-wheel cover as though she was conducting the symphony herself.
Delilah Lancaster was in her early forties. Her black
hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a few errant streaks of
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gray shining through like silver threads. Her face had aged
gracefully, the lines and striations of a woman who was
comfortable in growing older. She moved delicately but
with purpose, her eyes fixed on the road.
We sat in the car for several minutes, neither of us
speaking. She drove past several streets of well-maintained homes. We passed by those into a less-friendly part
of town that resembled the train station in its sense of
abandonment. When we stopped in front of an empty
building, I turned toward her to ask where