Orion rising, p.1
Orion Rising, page 1
BOOKS BY TERENCE FAHERTY
The True Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
The Quiet Woman
The Owen Keane Mysteries
Deadstick
Live to Regret
The Lost Keats
Die Dreaming
Prove the Nameless
The Ordained
Orion Rising
Eastward in Eden
The Confessions of Owen Keane
The Chronicles of Owen Keane
The Scott Elliott Mysteries
Kill Me Again
Come Back Dead
Raise the Devil
In a Teapot
Dance in the Dark
Play A Cold Hand
The Hollywood Op
The Star Republic Mysteries
Files of the Star Republic
Tales of the Star Republic
Orion Rising
Terence Faherty
The Gisbourne Press
Copyright 1999 by Terence Faherty
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Publishing History:
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition: July 1999
Worldwide paperback edition: February 2001
The Gisbourne Press edition: July 2020
Cover: Cover Story Design
Interior Design: Sue Trowbridge, interbridge.com
Author Photo: Paul Chaffee
This book is a work of fiction and the persons and places and institutions described herein are imaginary or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or places or institutions is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-7324184-5-5
For Liza Cody and Michael Z. Lewin
Contents
Other Books
Dedication
Duchet’s Heart
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Author's Note
About the Author
Duchet’s Heart
Carol Vandergalien had pert breasts.
I’d first encountered that description of breasts in a private-eye paperback, and while I’d looked up the adjective, finding it meant “saucily free and forward,” I hadn’t appreciated its aptness until I met Carol. Red-haired and willowy, she was a child of north Jersey money who was working for the Middlesex County Historical Society as a way of passing her time. I was working there as a way of keeping body and soul together. Despite that difference, and a total lack of pertness on my part, Carol and I got on fine, which was fortunate, as we were often given dirty, thankless jobs to do together.
We were working on one such job—sorting through unlabeled boxes in the basement of the society’s townhouse—early on a Wednesday evening. We’d stretched the job beyond our normal quitting time because Carol had no symphony benefit or charity auction to attend that night and I had nothing to do that was half as interesting as sitting near an attractive young woman who laughed easily.
As a bonus, we’d discovered murders, a whole carton of them. They were the forgotten donation of a man named Roy Perkins, whose unpublished dissertation, “New Jersey Murder Pamphlets of the Nineteenth Century”—carefully typed in 1954—was the first thing we’d found in the box.
Carol paraphrased the paper for me, sitting on the basement steps with her elegant legs crossed, reading by the light of a naked bulb. “Listen to this. These brochures were popular souvenirs of famous murder cases. They were sold all over New Jersey and even in Philadelphia and New York, sometimes to benefit the victim’s family, sometimes to benefit the murderer’s family. The murderer’s family? Oh, it says they were often sold at the hanging to cover funeral expenses. Some of them were a last claim of innocence on the part of the condemned. Most were confessions. The confessions sold better.”
They always do, I thought. I was sorting through the pamphlets themselves, browned and crumbling, varying in size from tabloid to vest pocket. So far, I’d found “The Horrible Death of Amos Byrne, of the Merchants Bank of Boonton,” “The Trial and Hanging of Zacheus Koster,” and “The True History of the Murder on the Morris Canal Boat Bridge Smasher.”
Carol was reading further. “The railroads actually added special trains on the day of a hanging to accommodate the sightseers. Sightseers for an execution. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been to a Jets game.”
Carol smirked and read on. “The bodies of the hanged were given over for dissection. Sometimes souvenirs were made from the bones and the tanned skin. Yuck. They made stuff out of the skin. Pocketbooks even. That would take a lot of skin.”
“They used to call wallets pocketbooks,” I said, somewhat distractedly. I’d found a booklet with a particularly gruesome cover, its centerpiece a bloody ax.
Carol set the dissertation aside and snatched the pamphlet from my hand. “The Crime of Pierre Duchet,” she read. A moment later she was giving me a play-by-play.
“This happened in 1839, right here in Middlesex County. A well-to-do doctor and his family took in a French immigrant, Pierre Duchet, as a laborer. One night after they’d gone to bed, Duchet murdered them all—doctor, wife and two kids—with an ax no less, for a few dollars in silver. Then, instead of running, he got drunk.
“The kitchen girl, Polly Rees—our heroine—managed to get away and raise the alarm. The sheriff found Duchet asleep, covered in blood, a few silver dollars in his pockets and an empty brandy bottle next to him.”
“How had Polly—our heroine—managed to get away?”
“She said Duchet spared her because she gave him extra treats with his dinner. And because he was sweet on her.”
“The sex angle,” I said. “You have to have that.”
“Duchet claimed he couldn’t remember anything that happened that night. Not too surprising after a bottle of brandy. His hanging was so well attended, they had to call out the local militia.”
“The perfect murder,” I said.
“Perfect? They hanged him.”
“They hanged an innocent man,” I corrected to tease her.
“Who did it, then?”
“Polly Rees, of course. The Nancy Drew of 1839. She slipped Duchet something at dinnertime to make him sleep. She was always giving him treats, remember? She probably used laudanum, from the doctor’s supply. That was a big painkiller back then, opium diluted with brandy. She mixed it with a tankard of straight brandy, and good night Pierre. Then she chopped up the family, sprinkled Duchet with their blood or killed a chicken over him, and left him with the ax and a prop bottle. She traded her bloody nightclothes for clean ones, after washing herself in the old millstream by the light of the silvery moon. Then she was off to see the sheriff.”
“Why? What was her motive?”
“Motive. She did it for the money. The doctor was known to be well off, but they only found a few dollars on Duchet. Polly stashed the rest with her bloody clothes. Plus she hated her job. Plus Duchet wasn’t sweet on her, she was sweet on him. Only he rejected her, so she framed him.”
Long before I’d finished, Carol was scanning the last pages of the pamphlet, looking for some rebuttal to my improvisation. What she found made her gasp.
She looked up, as frightened by me, it seemed, as by what she’d found. She dropped the booklet, muttered something about the time, and headed up the stairs.
I picked up the pamphlet and opened it to the last page. Attached to it was a piece of leather cut in the shape of a heart, but dried and shrunken. Beneath it was written, “Tanned skin of the murderer Pierre Duchet, obtained from Anne Willis, great-granddaughter of Polly Rees. Found among Rees’s possessions after her death in 1871.” It was signed Roy Perkins and dated 1952.
Just then Carol reached the top of the basement stairs. Forgetfully, perhaps, she switched off the lights.
Chapter One
“You really ought to get a life, Owen.”
Harry Ohlman had made the crack an hour earlier, when he’d picked me up at the apartment I was renting in downtown New Brunswick. While he’d been standing in the apartment’s living room, to be more specific, kicking at the newspapers that were keeping the carpet safe from dust.
“I’ve had one, thanks,” I’d said.
At the time, it had seemed like comeback enough. Now, as we crossed the glittering Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge, a crossing I’d made often but never without the feeling that the river’s true name was Rubicon, I wished I’d sai d something else. Something different. It wasn’t the quality of the line I’d used that bothered me. No better one had suggested itself since. I was haunted by the fear that the claim I’d made to Harry simply wasn’t true.
It was March 1995. We were driving from New Jersey to Boston, Massachusetts. To Boston College, our shared alma mater. Ostensibly we were going so Harry could oversee the audit of some accounts belonging to the alumni organization he headed up, Friends of the Eagle. In that scenario, I was along as relief driver or maybe just comic relief. In reality, we were making the drive on a crisp, clear Sunday because a man named James Courtney Murray had recently been found shot to death in the office of his small accounting firm.
Murray had been the treasurer of Friends of the Eagle, a coincidence that had inspired our cover story. It was certainly a coincidence. No one believed that Murray’s volunteer work for the college had anything to do with his murder. No one believed his own work as a CPA had, for that matter. His killer had eliminated the need for speculation by leaving an old newspaper clipping on Murray’s body, a clipping that described the brutal rape and beating of a nurse named Francine Knaff in March 1969 near Cleveland Circle, not far from the Boston College campus.
So I had more important things to think about than a stray insult of Harry’s. But still, as the New York exits on the interstate gave way to Connecticut exits, I dwelt on the words “get a life,” perhaps because they were easier to think about than James Courtney Murray.
It occurred to me that I might have done better at the apartment if I’d tossed Harry’s words back at him. A widower married to a law firm he hated, Harry was a candidate for a little life enrichment himself. True, he was raising a teenage daughter, Amanda, or, as it sometimes seemed to me, being raised by her. And he was always involved with a woman, sometimes very involved. More than one had been sent his way by Amanda, a born matchmaker. But none of her schemes had worked out in the end. Harry always balked at the final fence, as his daughter, a veteran rider, had once put it. Although I knew perfectly well why he balked, I asked him about his latest failure now. As a payback, you might say. The latest in our long exchange of paybacks.
“What’s happening with Lisa, the investment counselor?”
Harry swung the Lexus around a Suburban that was itself smacking the speed limit in the teeth. “Her name is Lena, and she’s an investment banker. I’d explain the difference to you, if I thought you were really interested.”
“I’m interested in how you two are doing.”
“We’re not.”
I glanced over at Harry to see how I was doing, to see whether I’d made an impression. His face was a little red, but then it tended to be red, especially his broad straight nose and his cheeks, which waxed or waned with his weight. They were waning today, which fit with what Amanda had told me: Lena was an exercise nut who worked Harry hard. He wasn’t thin and never would be—the big sedan’s driver’s seat was pushed back to the stops—but he’d sweated off much of the paunch he’d been lugging around since the eighties.
I checked the skin of his scalp, plainly visible through the remains of his dark hair, and decided I could safely push him a little further. “That’s too bad. I was hoping she was the one.”
“I bet you were,” Harry said. “If I didn’t know you so well, Owen, I’d think you were trying to free Mary up for some rendezvous in the afterlife.”
So much for the reliability of Harry’s epidermis. Mary was his wife, dead now for almost ten years. Dead but not forgotten by either of us. She was the reason Harry couldn’t commit himself to another woman. My relationship with Mary was also ongoing, but less well defined.
Harry’s mention of the afterlife would have sounded equally vague to an eavesdropper, had there been one around. Actually, it was very much to the point, an example of the kind of shorthand old friends use, an economical reference to a singular failure in my past: my unsuccessful attempt to become a priest. I couldn’t be counting on some fleecy heaven where I might yet steal Mary away from Harry, not me, not Owen Keane.
I could have countered by saying there’s a big difference between believing and hoping, as big as between waking and dreaming. I could have just said touché. I didn’t say anything.
“We should be talking about Murray,” Harry said. “You read the clippings I sent you.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered it anyway. “I read them.”
Harry must not have believed me. He started in on a summation of the case. He’d taken off his topcoat and sports jacket back in New Brunswick, but he still wore his gloves. They were thin and tight on his large hands, driving gloves in fact if not exactly in style. Harry tapped the steering wheel in a regular rhythm with his right hand as he spoke.
“Murray was working late a week ago Monday. Two weeks ago tomorrow. He was alone, as he always was in the office unless a client came by. His secretary quit a year ago to get married, and he never replaced her. Probably he couldn’t afford to replace her. His business had never done very well.
“That wasn’t in the paper,” Harry added, in case I was anxious on the point. “I picked that up working with him on the Friends of the Eagle deal. I tried to get some kind of salary set up for him, tried to make him a staff member and not a volunteer, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Too much self-respect.”
That might have been another poke at me, a man who had supped more than once at the Ohlman trough. Or it might just have been Harry being sensitive and insensitive in the same breath. I didn’t trouble myself to find out.
“Murray was staying late to meet a new client. Or someone he thought was a new client. He had an appointment noted on his desk calendar for seven that evening. All he’d written next to the time was ‘Mr. Knaff.’ There were no Knaffs in Murray’s files, so it wasn’t an established relationship. The police are figuring the killer used the promise of new business to keep Murray at his desk late, when there’d be less risk of someone in a neighboring office hearing the shots. They’re still checking on the name, but it’s likely to be a phony, a reference to Francine Knaff that Murray may or may not have picked up on.”
Harry changed lanes again and then said, “I don’t know whether you or I would have picked up on it, for that matter. Not after twenty-six years. And we have better reason to remember that name than Murray did.”
I was looking out the window. The stretch of highway we were on had been cut through an established neighborhood, laying bare a dizzying succession of backyards. I saw swing sets, tree forts, still-winterized swimming pools, scrap heaps hidden behind little sheds. Hidden from everyone but me. I thought of pictures I’d seen of bombed buildings, one wall gone, every room as open as a dollhouse’s to the view of the world.
“When Murray didn’t make it home by ten,” Harry continued, “his wife, Rita, started calling his office. I guess she also called a bar or two where he’d been known to stop after work. Finally, she got hold of the private security company that patrolled the little complex where Murray rented his office. One of their men found his body. He’d been shot six times at close range.”
My silence finally got to Harry. “Are you listening, Owen?”
“Murray was shot with a revolver at close range,” I said, without looking away from the scenery.
“I didn’t mention a revolver. Neither did the police.”
“Almost every revolver holds six shots. Almost every semiautomatic holds more than six. The killer fired until his gun was empty. That’s what you’d do if you were avenging a woman who’d been beaten to death. Or pretending to avenge one.”
“I liked it better when you were daydreaming.”
• • •
Harry’s sarcastic permission for me to daydream might have triggered the memory. It had been waiting in the wings of my consciousness, crowded there with dozens of others, each watching for an opening ever since the news of Murray’s death had reached me. I’d resisted them all until now. In a way, I still resisted, since the vision that took the place of the blurry Connecticut landscape had nothing to do with Murray or even 1969.
It was close, though. 1968. The fall of ’68. Our freshman year at Boston College. Mine and Harry’s and Mary’s. I couldn’t place the month. October? November? It was raining. I could see the rain on Commonwealth Avenue’s black pavement, see it pooling in depressions in the granite curbing, each micro puddle reflecting the streetlights, making the stretch of curb where I stood look like gold-bearing ore. I could smell the rain, feel it pasting my hair—my shoulder-length hair—to my forehead and ears.
