The Stolen

13

The next morning I went to Penn Station first thing and bought a ticket on the 148 regional Amtrak en route to

Meriden, Connecticut. Delilah Lancaster was scheduled to meet me. I'd spent the previous night going over her comments, trying to gain a better understanding of her relationship with Michelle Oliveira.

I took a copy of the file on Michelle Oliveira, a copy of that morning's Gazette and a large iced coffee that promptly spilled all over my linen jacket when a kind man with a Prada briefcase elbowed me in the head. I went to the bathroom compartment on the train to clean it, and though I was able to avoid stepping in the unidentified brown goop on the floor, I left with a softball-size blotch on my chest. I debated finding Prada man and throwing him onto the tracks, but I needed my composure. Not to mention I needed to stay out of jail.

When the train pulled out of the station, I cracked open the Gazette and read the story Jack had written for this edition. The piece focused on the looming gentrification of Harlem, how real estate prices were soaring, speculative investors, many of them foreign, were snapping up town houses and condos like they were Junior Mints. The average two-bedroom had nearly doubled in price over the past decade. Foreign investors, emboldened by the weak dollar, were monopolizing the market. The prices Jack quoted quickly confirmed that if I ever desired to buy in

New York rather than rent, I'd either have to win the lottery or find a sugar mama.

The reporting was solid, one of Jack's better recent efforts. Too many of his recent articles felt slapped together, rushed, pieces he forced past Evelyn and the copy editors simply because he was the man. Had the stories been written by a younger reporter who hadn't yet cut his teeth, won major awards and written a shelfful of bestsellers, many of them would have been spiked. The old man needed an intervention. The ink of the newsroom was still the blood that pumped through his veins, but he was a train slowly careening off the tracks. Without some straightening out, the impending crash would permanently derail his career.

The train took about an hour and forty-five minutes to reach Meriden. I finished the Gazette and spent a good twenty minutes staring at an advertisement featuring a man quizzically holding an empty bottle of water before realizing it was hawking Viagra. When the train came to a stop, I noticed a man with a friar's patch of baldness jotting down the ad's

Web site before hustling off the train. One new customer.

I disembarked the train and took in the city of Meriden.

I hadn't spent much time in Connecticut, only having traveled here once to interview a fast-food worker who'd witnessed a murder while on vacation in NYC. A lot of

New Yorkers commuted into the city from parts of Connecticut-Greenwich being a popular hub-in large part due to the ever-booming Manhattan real estate market. For just a thirty-minute train commute, a million bucks could buy you a home or large condo as opposed to a onebedroom with the view of fire escape.

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 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 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 we were.

"I agreed to talk to you," she said, her hands still on the wheel despite the engine being off. "But I don't want it in my house or in any place of business or pleasure. That's the agreement."

I nodded, reached into my bag for a tape recorder. She eyed it, curled her lip.

"This is also part of the agreement," I said. "You have to go on the record." She nodded. I turned the recorder on.

"You know I went through all this seven years ago," she said. "The police questioned me many times. I know I got scared that night, but all those police, I thought somebody had been killed. For a moment I thought it might have been

Michelle. All I know is, one day I was Michelle Oliveira's tutor, the next day she was gone from this world, and then several years later she rose like the phoenix."

"Why did you think she might have been killed? That seems like you were jumping to a pretty terrible conclusion."

"When you've lived in this city as long as I have, you've seen young boys killed because they were targeted by rival dealers. When you've seen young girls caught in the cross fire, then you can say that I'm jumping to conclusions. I did think Michelle might have been another victim.

That she'd been taken away forever."

"Well, now she's at Juilliard," I said. A slight smile crossed Delilah Lancaster's lips.

"She's the most talented individual I've ever had the pleasure of working with," Delilah said. "The moment I walked into the Oliveira home for the first time and listened to that girl play, the French bow moving in her hand like the wind, I knew it. French bows are mainly used by soloists, and most young students don't even know the difference. But Michelle, she made her father buy a French bow. Nothing else would suffice. Most young girls have posters on their walls of their favorite bands, their favorite athletes, boys they have crushes on. Do you know what

Michelle Oliveira had posted on her wall?"

I said I didn't.

"You're aware that most girls that age don't have posters, or much of anything on their walls. They haven't yet begun to have crushes, and wouldn't know who

Orlando Bloom was compared to Barack Obama. But

Michelle, she had a poster on her wall. I don't even know where she got it, or how. But right on her wall, above her bed, was a picture of Charles IX."

I waited for an explanation. "Is that a King of England or something?"

Delilah shook her head. "Charles IX is the oldest violin in existence. It was made in 1716 by Antonio Stradivari.

It is kept in pristine condition at the Ashmolean museum in Oxford. You can imagine this is not exactly a common item for a five-year-old to worship."

"Stradivari-is he related to the Stradivarius?"

"The same," she said.

"For a young child to hold such an instrument in this regard, it simply made my heart float. When she disappeared-" Delilah lowered her head, clasped her hands together "-I felt like I'd lost a kindred spirit. Someone who understood the beauty and passion of music like so few do in their lives. And to lose her at such a young age-I thought a great student had been taken. A shame in so many ways. And when Michelle came back, I thanked God for keeping one of his finest creatures on this earth."

"You really cared for Michelle, didn't you?" I asked.

Delilah looked at me. " Still care. I do care for her the way a teacher looks at a prized pupil, yes. But our bond went deeper than that. I cared more for Michelle than I did most of my friends and-" she sighed "-perhaps most of my family."

I looked at Delilah's hand, barren of any rings. She noticed this.

"My husband died three years ago. Pulmonary embolism. Life hits you when you never expect it. But I still have my music. That, at least, is everlasting. And one day

Michelle will create a composition that will stand the test of time. That students, like she once was, will study."

Delilah looked out over her town, the barren building in front of her.

"This city has changed so much. So many people left after what happened to Michelle. I didn't blame them. I have no children, but if I did I couldn't justify raising them here. Now young families, dare I say yuppies, have moved into those houses. Rats joining a ship. I never thought I would see that in Meriden."

"You're against gentrification?" I asked.

"It pays my bills," she said. "And allows me more leisure time than I previously had. But Lord, if I could find one truly talented student in the bunch, it would make my year."

"Not many children like Michelle come along," I said.

"No," she agreed. "No, they don't."

"Aside from the obvious, was there anything about

Michelle that was different when she came back? Did she ever mention a family member, a friend, somebody you didn't recognize?"

Delilah shook her head. "Michelle didn't have many friends. The gifted ones never do."

"Did she strike you as different in any way? After she returned?"

Delilah thought for a moment. "She became more withdrawn. Michelle was once a vibrant, popular girl, but she never fit in again. You can't explain to a young girl why people are staring at her, knowing she can't possibly understand exactly what happened. One night, a few days after she came back, I thought I saw scarring on her arm, but I decided it was just a pimple, some kind of adolescent puberty thing. It saddened me to see such a lovely girl just have her soul sucked away. But what person wouldn't after going through something like that?"

"Did she ever say anything to you that gave any clue as to where she might have been all those years?"

Delilah shook her head. Stared ahead of her. I looked at the tape recorder. Afraid this was all I was going to get from Delilah Lancaster.

Another song came on the radio, the violin strings prominent. Delilah's fingers flowed with the sound. Then they abruptly stopped.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?"

She cocked her head, looked deep in thought.

"Beethoven's sonata," she said.

"Is that what's playing right now?" I asked.

"No," Delilah answered, her voice soft. There was a tinge of fright in there that made my pulse begin to race.

"Beethoven's Sonata no. 6. It's an incredibly difficult piece. It can take months, if not years, to master. Oh, God,

I remember that night."

"What happened?"

"It was only the second or third lesson after she returned," Delilah said. "Michelle was so down. Depressed. I asked her to play something that made her happy. And she picked up her bow and began to play…oh,

God…"

"What?" I said. "What happened?"

"The sonata. Michelle played it for me that night. I left the house cold, shivering. I didn't sleep for a week."

"Why?" I said, a shiver running down my back.

Delilah Lancaster turned toward me. "In the dozens of lessons I had with Michelle Oliveira, never once had she even attempted to play Beethoven. She had never tried to play that symphony. That sonata was not even in any of the books I purchased for her. Somehow she'd learned to play that piece in between the time she disappeared…"

"…and when she came back."

I looked at Delilah Lancaster. She was trembling, her hands gripping the wheel so hard they'd become white.

"Somebody else taught her how to play that sonata."