The book of lost hours, p.33
The Book of Lost Hours, page 33
“Have you ever been in love?” Moira asked, smirking at the very thought of Jack Dillinger swooning after some girl in a poodle skirt. The alcohol was already hitting her.
Jack returned the smirk, reaching out to toy with a strand of her hair. “Love is for suckers,” he said. “You know, we’re a lot alike, you and me.”
Moira laughed bitterly until she realized he was serious. “How?”
“We both carry a burden. Only we know how truly fragile it all is. We’re the only two people in the world who see the whole picture. It all could vanish in a heartbeat, everything we’ve ever held dear slipping right through our fingers. It makes you want to hold everything as tight as you can, but at the same time… it’s impossible to want to hold on to anything at all. So you push it all away. And before long you find yourself standing alone, watching the illusion that we call reality change with every passing day.”
Moira looked at him in surprise. He wore an expression the likes of which she’d never seen before. A heavy, almost mournful look, the arrogant mask cracking to reveal the weight of all that he carried beneath it. A lifetime’s worth of knowing too much, compounded by the isolation he’d foisted upon himself out of fear of it all being taken away. But then he blinked, meeting her gaze, and the shadows lifted. As if they’d never been there at all.
Jack took the glass from her hands and set it on the coffee table beside the other.
“I’ve been looking into apartments in New York. I was thinking we could get you your own place this time. No more boardinghouse.”
“Really?” She didn’t want to think about New York.
“Sure. You’ve been working for me for, what, four years?”
“Something like that.” Moira shifted positions. Her shoulder brushed against Jack’s chest. When had he gotten so close?
“I figure that’s enough time to fully acclimate to the way things work out in the world. Plus, if you’re in an apartment, you’ll have a lot more privacy.”
“Right. Privacy.” Because that was what she needed after a lifetime of isolation.
Jack let out a sigh. “Look, I know this is hard right now. But you’re gonna be all right. You have other options.”
Moira scoffed at him, emboldened by the alcohol. “Like who? You?” she asked sarcastically.
There was a pause. He set one hand on her knee. “Well… you are my girl.”
There was a look in his eyes that burned just like the whiskey. She cleared her throat. Tried to move away.
“I should probably…”
“Not yet,” he said, cutting her off.
“But I…”
“Lisavet…” he murmured.
She froze at the sound of her name and then all of a sudden Jack’s lips were on hers. They were hot and wet and tasted like whiskey and nothing else. She pushed him away in alarm.
“Jack. What are you…”
He shushed her and kissed her again, harder this time to compensate for her struggle to pull away.
“Jack, no. This isn’t…”
“This isn’t what?” Jack asked, his voice purring seductively.
“We can’t do this,” Moira said. “I don’t want…”
He caught her arm, jerking her against him. “It’s okay. You’re not with Ernest anymore. This is allowed.”
“That’s not what I…”
Her words were cut short by the invasive presence of his mouth on hers once more. One of his hands roamed over her, inching farther and farther up her leg. She was truly trapped, her body wedged between him and the arm of the sofa. This wasn’t about her anyway. It was about Jack and his need to feel powerful. It was about Ernest. Jack’s desire to take something that was considered his.
“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted you,” he moaned as she finally relented and kissed him back.
How long? she wanted to ask. Was it when he’d cornered her into working for him? Or maybe when he’d first met her, scared and shaking, locked away for weeks under his orders? Had it been sometime like that? She heard a clicking sound as he unbuckled his belt.
“Wait,” she said, turning her head away. “Not here.”
“Huh?” Jack said impatiently.
“I think I deserve the bedroom at the very least.”
The bedroom, where it was quiet and dark and where she could pretend this wasn’t happening. That he was somebody else.
Jack chuckled at her and lifted her up off the sofa. A brief second of reprieve before his lips crashed against hers again. He pulled her dress up over her head as he walked her steadily backward and shut the door behind them.
* * *
JACK WAS a heavy sleeper.
As the sun rose through the blinds in the morning, it took several minutes for him to wake up. Moira stood beside the window, looking down at the streets below. She had taken a cigarette from his nightstand and flicked the lighter as loudly as she could, hoping it would wake him. He began to stir slowly just as she took her first breath of smoke.
“You’re up early,” he said with a small groan.
“I don’t sleep much.”
He sat up, taking in the sight of her standing in the window. She was wearing his shirt from the night before, the cuffs rolled up. She could tell he liked the sight of her in it. That it did something for him. She smirked at his predictability and took another drag. She kept her eyes focused on the window as Jack got out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants. He came up behind her, turning her face with one hand so he could kiss her on the lips. As if they were really lovers. The subtle taste of whiskey was still there, faded now.
“Last night was something special.”
“Do you use that line on all your secretaries?”
“Now, now. You know you’re not like those other girls.”
Of course she wasn’t, Moira thought bitterly. They had been caught off guard, surprised by the sudden, sinister turn of his demeanor, whereas she had known all along what kind of man he was. And yet the end result was the same. He pushed and they folded, knowing they had no choice in the matter.
“Get dressed. I’ll drop you by the boardinghouse so you can change before work,” he said, already headed for the kitchen. “You want coffee?”
Moira hummed a response, waiting until he was at the door before speaking again. “So. Who else knows about what you did in Okinawa?”
He stopped walking. “What?”
“Okinawa. Those girls. I saw it in your memory while you were sleeping.”
He turned to face her, his movements heavy. “You read my mind?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Jack. You know I can do that.”
Of course he knew. He’d just been arrogant enough to assume she’d never use it on him.
“Moira. I don’t know what you think you saw…”
“Did you know that that kind of behavior is a war crime, Jack?” Moira examined her cigarette lazily as he drew closer to where she stood. “You know. I wonder what your superiors would say if they knew. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t like it. It might even make them reconsider your promotion.”
Jack’s hand closed around her throat so fast she didn’t have time to react. Her skull cracked against the wall, and she dropped the cigarette, her hands flying to his wrist.
“Listen here, you little bitch. I don’t know what you’re trying to do but you can’t prove anything.”
Moira laughed at him as best she could, struggling for air. “Does treating women like this make you feel powerful?”
His grip tightened.
“What are you going to do, Jack? Kill me? Shelley knows I went home with you last night.”
She wasn’t certain this would be enough to prevent him from snapping her neck. But apparently he wasn’t completely above self-preservation because he stopped.
“What do you want?” he snapped. “You want something, don’t you? That’s why you brought this up?”
“Your job.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I want your position. After your promotion is final.”
“You want to be the director of the Temporal Reconnaissance Program?” Jack asked in disbelief.
“Yes. And I want to move the TRP to the New York office.” Away from him. Away from Ernest. Someplace she could actually have a life.
Jack let go in surprise. She slumped against the wall, using the windowsill to drag herself upright.
“You’re a secretary,” he said, sounding disgusted.
“Now, now, Jack. I’m not like those other girls, remember? I know the time space better than anyone. Better than you ever will.”
“Do you know what people will say if I give you that job? What they’ll think?”
“They’ll assume I’m sleeping with you. Which is what they’ve always thought. And now I have. But if I were you, I’d be more worried about what they’ll say if they hear what I know about you.”
“No one will believe you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Should we find out?”
Jack stepped away. He studied her from head to foot, still pulsing with anger.
“This is blackmail.”
“Yes, it is. But I’d say it’s fair, don’t you think? You give me a promotion and in exchange, I’ll make sure you don’t lose yours.”
Another long pause. “You sure you want to do this? That’s Ernest’s position. You’d take it from him?”
“Find him something else.”
“Something else?”
“Something better. In a different department.”
“There are no other positions open.”
“Then make one.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“You’ll be the head of the CIA, Jack. Create a new department for timekeeper relations or something. Call it the Office of Temporal Diplomacy. I don’t care.” She paused before adding, “Relocate him to the Boston office.” Close to Amelia, but far from Jack. Far from her.
Jack shook his head in disbelief, the anger still there but waning.
“Fine. You can have the job. Ernest will go to Boston and head up this new department. But I’m not transferring the TRP to New York.”
She shrugged and turned back toward the window. “Then no deal.”
“Moira…”
“I’m not staying in DC,” she said sharply. Staying here wasn’t an option. There was nothing left for her here. “You wanted eyes and ears in the office, anyway, right?”
“Right, but I didn’t plan on transferring the whole department out there.” Jack reached out and toyed with the hem of the shirt she wore, some of last night’s hunger surfacing. “Besides, now I’m not sure I want you to go at all.”
Moira pulled away. “New York. Or you can kiss your promotion goodbye.”
His expression hardened again. A reckoning with the fact that, in one single night, their entire dynamic had shifted. No longer would he be able to exercise such control over her life as he had before. It was too late to fix things with Ernest, but she might still be able to salvage a life for herself with what little remained. She would go to New York. Ernest would go to Boston. And Jack would stay in DC. She hoped that, with the three of them apart, no longer looking over one another’s shoulders, Ernest and Amelia would be safe.
“Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.
“One more thing,” Moira said, smiling smugly. “If I’m going to be the director, I’ll need a watch.”
“Absolutely not,” he snapped. “You can’t honestly think that I would—”
“If I don’t have one, people will ask questions,” she pointed out. “It will make them suspicious. And we don’t want that.”
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “But you will not enter the time space, is that understood?”
She faltered slightly. That would defeat the whole point. “Jack—”
“Those are my terms,” he spat back. “If you take so much as one step into the time space without my approval, I’ll find a reason to have Ernest killed. I’ll have you arrested, and I’ll deploy every last man I’ve got to hunt down that child of yours. Is that understood?”
Moira refused to let him see her shaken. She’d gained too much to let him win now. So she fixed a conniving smile to her face and extended a hand to him. “Then we have a deal?”
He ground his jaw, his large hand encompassing hers in a firm, begrudging handshake. “Well played, Miss Levy.”
He let go of her hand and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Moira took another cigarette from the carton and lit it, savoring the taste of smoke and victory.
20
1965, New York City, New York
MOIRA HAD NOT SEEN Ernest Duquesne for five years when he showed up on her doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm. She returned from work late that night, fighting to keep her umbrella open in the pouring rain and wind. It had been a long day, filled with multiple phone calls from Jack. Even after five years as the head of the CIA, he still hadn’t been able to relinquish total control of the TRP to her. The rebellion picked up steam, despite her best efforts, becoming harder and harder to eradicate. Every month, there were new reports from other agencies across the world of suspected rebels lurking in their ranks. Rebels who continued to ask about Lisavet Levy, who searched for her book and occasionally asked questions about the child she had once been seen with.
So Moira doubled down. She erased the name Lisavet Levy from the minds of anyone who came across it and didn’t stop to ask questions. She couldn’t afford to think about morality with the rebel movement constantly threatening to expose the truth, putting both her and Amelia at risk. So she stayed in line and ran the TRP with an iron grip. She did what Jack asked her to do. And she did what needed to be done to keep herself and her daughter safe. For years, life moved forward. Until that night in 1965, when it came to a screeching halt.
He was standing on the stoop, waiting for her. Judging by his wet clothes in spite of his umbrella, he had been standing there for quite some time.
“Ernest,” she said, freezing.
He didn’t speak, staring at her with those blue eyes that never changed no matter how much time had passed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Is everything all right?” She and Ernest still spoke from time to time when their work demanded it, but always on the phone. Never in person. After he’d been informed that she would be taking the job as director, he had made a point never to deal with her face-to-face.
He laughed breathlessly. “Oh yes, everything is fine. That’s why I’m standing outside your apartment at nine o’clock at night.”
Moira looked at him. Ernest was more than angry, he was furious. She straightened. “Can I know what this is about?”
“It’s about Lisavet Levy.”
Moira tried to keep her face blank. Not this again. She had tried so hard to remove that name from his head. Why did it keep coming back to haunt her?
“Well, let’s not have it out here in the street. Come inside.”
In the elevator, Ernest stood beside her in silence, dripping water from his coat onto the floor. Moira stole a glance at him, noting the tension in his jaw, the unkempt look of his hair that indicated he had been running his hands through it obsessively. He was pushing forty now, but his hair still shone as bright and thick as it always had. Not a trace of gray or thinning. He caught her looking at him and stiffened his jaw even more.
They reached the top floor. Moira unlocked the door to her apartment and let him inside, shutting and bolting it behind her. She hung her own umbrella and coat on the rack and told him to do the same.
“Coffee?” she asked, setting her handbag down on the table by the sofa. Still playing cordial host until she knew what he wanted.
“No thanks,” Ernest said tensely. He was looking around at the apartment.
This was Moira’s third apartment in New York and was by far the nicest she’d had. She had made it her own, decorating with modern furniture in dark woods and heavy upholstery. The south-facing windows overlooked the city and there was a second room she used as a library in addition to the bedroom. For a moment, there was only silence, punctuated by the roaring of the wind and rain outside beating against the windows.
“Nice place,” Ernest said bitterly. “Did Jack help you pick it out?”
Moira gave him a look and went into the kitchen. “Do you want tea instead?”
“No.”
“Then how about a drink? You like gin, right?”
“Moira. I don’t want anything.”
He set his briefcase down on the coffee table by the record player and opened it. The latches clicked like the sound of knuckles cracking. She watched him uneasily as he turned his back to her and removed something from the case. In an effort to have something, anything to do, she reached into the drawer for a cigarette. As she was raising the lighter to the tip, she heard the soft scratch of a record starting to play and froze.
A song she knew too well poured from the horn. The trumpeting intro to “Blue Moon,” sung by Billy Eckstine, filled the apartment. Moira’s blood ran cold. Her eyes flew to Ernest, finding him standing in the center of the room, fists clenched.
“Sound familiar?” he asked.
“Ernest, I don’t see how this is—”
“I asked you if it sounded familiar.”
Moira swallowed. “Yes.”
“Yes,” he repeated softly. He turned to look back at the record player as the song continued to ring out. “I always loved this song. From the very first time I heard it, I thought it was one of the most beautiful songs I’d ever heard. I used to play it all the time when I was alone. Especially back when we were together. I was drawn to it because it reminded me of you, even though it wasn’t a song we’d ever listened to together… or at least, I thought we hadn’t.”
He fixed his eyes back on her and she held her breath, waiting for whatever was coming next. After a long pause, he took another step in her direction. “I found Lisavet Levy’s book. Or I guess I should say… I found your book.” His words shook violently at the end.
