All of Us Read online

  ALL OF US

  A. F. Carter

  www.headofzeus.com

  Originally published in the United States of America in 2020 by The Mysterious Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © A. F. Carter, 2020.

  The moral right of A F. Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781838933784

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781838933791

  ISBN (E): 9781838933777

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  Head of Zeus Ltd

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  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Victoria

  Chapter 2: Martha

  Chapter 3: Serena

  Chapter 4: Martha

  Chapter 5: Kirk

  Chapter 6: Tina

  Chapter 7: Kirk

  Chapter 8: Serena

  Chapter 9: Kirk

  Chapter 10: Serena

  Chapter 11: Martha

  Chapter 12: Eleni

  Chapter 13: Kirk

  Chapter 14: Victoria

  Chapter 15: Tina

  Chapter 16: Martha

  Chapter 17: Victoria

  Chapter 18: Serena

  Chapter 19: Martha

  Chapter 20: Serena

  Chapter 21: Tina

  Chapter 22: Kirk

  Chapter 23: Martha

  Chapter 24: Serena

  Chapter 25: Eleni

  Chapter 26: Eleni

  Chapter 27: Martha

  Chapter 28: Martha

  Chapter 29: Tina

  Chapter 30: Martha

  Chapter 31: Kirk

  Chapter 32: Victoria

  Chapter 33: Victoria

  Chapter 34: Martha

  Chapter 35: Kirk

  Chapter 36: Eleni

  Chapter 37: Eleni

  Chapter 38: Martha

  Chapter 39: Serena

  Chapter 40: Serena

  Chapter 41: Victoria

  Chapter 42: Martha

  Chapter 43: Eleni

  Chapter 44: Serena

  Chapter 45: Serena

  Chapter 46: Eleni

  Chapter 47: Eleni

  Chapter 48: Martha

  Chapter 49: Martha

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  When Sergeant Louis Brady pulls up to the intersection of President and Nevins Streets in Brooklyn, he finds three unmarked Ford Escorts, practically his entire squad, haphazardly parked, nose to the curb. Already pissed, he parks his ancient Grand Marquis next to a fire hydrant and gets out. The contrast between the unusually crisp July air and the smoke-saturated interior of the Grand Marquis strikes him immediately, though he’s not sure which atmosphere he prefers. He does know that his Vice Unit is out of business in this neighborhood with no arrests to show for the effort. Lieutenant Cathcart will not be happy.

  Brady holds up a hand when Patrolman Anthony Ribotta approaches. Brady actively dislikes Ribotta, a Holy Name Society type with a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror of whatever unit he happens to be driving. For cops like Ribotta, a simple prostitution sting can become a crusade to rid the world of impurities. Brady, by contrast, doesn’t hate, doesn’t even dislike the women and the transvestites he arrests. Take the man’s pay, do the man’s job, in twenty years comes the magic pension. Brady’s entire career is based on this understanding of his role in the war against crime.

  Brady waves at the four cops standing by their units. “Tell those bastards to get back to work, Anthony. We can’t stay out here all night.”

  He doesn’t wait for a reply but instead approaches the Ford with the woman in the back seat. She’s sitting forward on the seat with her knees raised on the seat back in front of her. Her already-short skirt has drifted up, probably when she backed into the car. Now it rides almost at her hips, while her green blouse, sheer to begin with, is unbuttoned far enough to reveal a lacy pink bra that Brady wishes he’d given to his wife last Christmas.

  Brady stops a few feet from the car, the sight so wonderfully erotic he wants to prolong it as long as possible. He’s assuming the woman is too preoccupied with her situation —she’s not handcuffed, but the doors can’t be opened or the windows rolled down—to realize she’s being watched. But then she turns her head to him, turns it slowly, smiling a sly smile, her green eyes pushing past his baby blues, pushing right down into his brain. Does she find what she’s looking for? Brady doesn’t know as he watches her turn away, watches her settle onto the seat again, waiting now for whatever comes next.

  Brady walks back to where Patrolman Ribotta leans against a streetlight. Ribotta’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a pocket. He’s stuffed a pack of cigarettes into the pocket, a nice touch for an undercover working a sting. Ribotta might be a model for Joe Workingman out for a touch of the strange before heading home to his wife.

  “Alright, Anthony, let’s hear the story. And keep the bullshit to a minimum.”

  Ribotta lifts his Yankees cap and runs his hand over his half-inch buzz cut, pushing a little wave of sweat front to back. Then he puts the hat back on and raises his chin, another habit Brady dislikes.

  “It’s quiet, okay,” he begins. “Like so quiet I’m thinkin’ the whores know we’re out here and they’re working some other stroll. But then this woman”—he points to the woman in the back of the car— “she comes walkin’ down Nevins Street likes she owns it. Ass and tits, everything moving. I don’t know what to think because she doesn’t look exactly like a hooker. She’s too something I can’t put my finger on. But she marches straight up to where I’m standing, no hesitation, Sarge, and propositions me.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “I can’t remember exactly. Somethin’ about if I have a few hours, I could do her any way I want. Then she said something about eggs.”

  “Eggs?”

  “Yeah, like I could have her sunny-side up or poached or hard-boiled. Whatever I liked.”

  Brady stares at his subordinate for a moment. Young, tall, good-looking, you dress him up right, he could be working an upscale narcotics sting in a Manhattan bar. “And what’d you do then?”

  “My fucking job, Sarge? I asked her how much, but she wasn’t hearin’ it. Said I was enough reward for a weekday afternoon. I mean, what could I do? She don’t take money, she’s not a hooker, right? She has to state a price and name an act, this for that. But she wasn’t dumb enough to go there.” Here it comes. That’s what Brady’s thinking. What Patrolman Ribotta should have done is take the lady’s phone number and send her on her way. That’s exactly what Louis Brady would have done if anything that sweet fell into his lap, which it never has. The woman in the car, though not young, is a real stunner.

  “So,” Ribotta continues, “I right away figured that something’s off here. In the middle of the afternoon you don’t proposition a complete stranger on a street known for its hookers unless you got a scr
ew loose somewhere. I mean, she wasn’t drunk and didn’t look to be stoned, so I just figured she was crazy. And ya know what? I was right. I ran her through NCIC, and she’s been locked away twice, once at Creedmoor and once at Brooklyn Psychiatric.”

  Brady asks two more questions. He wants to settle the facts in his mind. “But she never asked you for money? She never committed a crime?”

  “No, Sarge, she’s not a hooker. Her name’s Carolyn Grand.” Brady spins on his heel. What Ribotta should have done is irrelevant. He, Louis Brady, has become responsible. It’s his baby now. He walks back to the Escort, opens the front door, flips the door lock button. Finally, he opens the back door and says, “Why don’t you come out of there, Ms. Grand?”

  He says it nice, not threatening, because he doesn’t want to pack this woman off to the psych unit at Kings County Hospital for three days of observation. Not when the only crime she committed was being stupid enough to proposition Anthony Ribotta.

  Carolyn Grand turns her head first. She’s smiling, her gaze frank and unafraid, even defiant. Of course, she has to turn her body, tuck in her knees and scoot along the edge of the seat to clear the seat back in front. Which pulls her skirt up even higher. Brady doesn’t turn away, but he’s not enjoying the show. He’s evaluating her readiness to assume responsibility for her own life. Then she does something totally unexpected.

  “Please,” she says, extending a hand. “Help me out.”

  Even as he shakes his head no, Brady takes her small hand and gently pulls her to her feet. He’s thinking that she’s definitely going to try to screw her way out of her predicament, but she freezes instead, her eyes blinking rapidly as her hands flutter over her cheeks and mouth. Then she buttons the front of her blouse and smooths the miniskirt over her thighs, her breathing shallow, her fingers trembling. Finally, her cheeks the red of an overripe tomato, her mouth so tight her lips vanish, she manages to speak a single, barely audible word.

  “What?”

  Brady shudders. It’s like glancing into a mirror only to find someone else glancing back. This mousey woman with the frightened eyes—her neck curled as though she’s afraid even to raise her chin, fingers picking at a button on her blouse— this is not the same woman who stared at him from the back seat of the unit, not the woman who slid toward him, her skirt rising to her hips. This is someone else, the transformation rapid enough to leave him with his mouth open.

  So, it’s no good. No good at all. Brady’s first partner, the veteran who broke him in, had made it plain before he put their unit in gear.

  “Only one rule, kid, which you should carry with you every day, every minute. Cover your ass. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, kid, in the cop world you joined, there’s always a foot headed right for it.”

  Brady recalls the advice even before he asks Carolyn Grand the obvious question. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  The woman looks down at her feet, hesitating for a moment, but then finds her resolve. “I’m afraid,” she tells him, “that I’ve forgotten.”

  It’s the best she can do, and Brady admires the effort, but it’s not enough. He puts her back in the car, then again approaches Ribotta. The woman’s nuts, that’s for sure, and there’s no knowing what she’ll do next. Meanwhile, Ribotta ran her name, so there’s a record that leads right back to Louis Brady.

  “Call in the EMTs, send her to Kings County,” he tells Ribotta. “Let the shrinks figure it out.”

  Brady takes a final look at Carolyn Grand as he heads for his own unit. The look of utter defeat tugs at his heart. He tells himself that if he’s wrong, if she’s not crazy, she’ll only spend a day or two at Kings County. No big deal, right? But some tours of duty, as Brady learned many years before, are worse than others. Some tours are worse than others and some tours are fucking impossible.

  CHAPTER ONE

  VICTORIA

  I take a second to adjust my game face—I should say we, because there are others watching—before I open the door and step into Dr. Halberstam’s office. It’s four days since we were discharged from a locked psych ward at Kings County Hospital and our appearance is a condition of our discharge. Do it or else.

  I find our therapist standing behind his desk, his expression as composed as my own. He says, “Good morning, Ms. Grand, please have a seat.”

  I accept the chair he offers, though I would have preferred another. The back of this chair is tilted. I can’t sit up straight unless I perch on the edge. Nor can I walk out of his office, which I and my sisters and my brother would most like to do. I’m stuck here, forced into a posture, if not seductive, at least vulnerable. For the present, Dr. Laurence Halberstam owns us. I know it, and he knows it.

  I watch him sit behind his desk, his chair back far more upright than mine. I watch him shuffle through the case file on his desk, our case file: thick, substantial, the history of our lives as told by the many therapists and psychologists and psychiatrists who’ve dissected us over the past twenty years.

  “Well, Ms. Grand—”

  I stop him with a small shake of my head. “There’s no Ms. Grand, Doctor, and there hasn’t been for many years. There’s only us.” I can afford to be open here because I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. “I want to be frank,” I claim, “right from the beginning.”

  His expression doesn’t change, but I didn’t expect it to. Our therapist is in his midforties, with a slender body and a full head of neatly parted hair that I suspect to be his pride and joy. Every hair is in place, every strand uniformly black. There’s not a hint of gray, or even a thinning on top when he bends forward to study his notes, taking his time about it. He wears a gray suit over a starched blue shirt and a muted red tie. The tie’s Windsor knot forms a perfect triangle beneath his chin, but the tie itself is slightly askew, an imperfection that somehow pleases me.

  Without changing expression, he lifts his head and looks at me, a technique we’ve encountered several times in the past. Still, I have to concede Halberstam’s mastery of the silent stare. His blue eyes are piercing, even behind the glasses. Finally, he says, “Can I assume that I’m talking to Victoria?”

  Presenting an acceptable public face is my job, my function. I represent the family, the four girls and one boy who share this body. In that capacity, I’m required to project, first and foremost, that our situation is under control. Which it’s not, of course, which it’s never been, as my siblings are quick to remind me when I’m too full of myself. Still, I’m wearing my demure best, a full, brown skirt that falls to within two inches of my knees, a white blouse with a scalloped collar and a tan sweater. My shoulder-length hair has been swept back to cover my ears. Except for a light coating of dark red lipstick, I’m not wearing makeup.

  “And where are the others,” Halberstam asks, his tone studiously neutral. “Right this minute?”

  “Some watching, some wherever.”

  “That’s interesting. Who would you say is watching? And why?”

  As I compose myself, I glance around Halberstam’s office. We’ve passed time in many psych offices, enough to know they fall into three general patterns. The warm and cozy, the ultrahip, the cool, calm, and collected. Halberstam’s office fits the latter category. Beige wallpaper, a lacquered desk that reflects my shins, hints of mauve in the chairs, porcelain and pottery in lit niches. LED lights frame the outer edges of the ceiling, while a desk lamp with an amber shade provides the only real color in the room.

  The décor advertises Halberstam’s approach. He will be neither friend nor foe. He will play the part of the objective observer, his goal to help us help ourselves. Sadly, we’ve generally done better with the homey types, the huggers. “Martha, of course, and Tina. They’re watching.”

  “And the others? Where are they?”

  I shrug. “Wherever.”

  He’s not having it, and he gets right to the point. We don’t exist and never will. “Where do you go, Vic
toria, when you’re not in control and not watching?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? And I apologize for not having an answer, except to say we don’t relate well to clock time. It seems to me that I exist at every moment, but I know that can’t be strictly accurate.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because there are periods of time I can’t account for, long periods of time. But, then again, where does your anger go, Doctor, when you’re not angry? Your laughter, your hunger, your thirst?”

  I watch his eyes narrow. My feeble challenge has annoyed him and he’ll try to put me in my place. To prove the point, he asks a question I think he was saving for later on.

  “Describe the incident that brought you here. Or better yet, perhaps you can summon the identity who precipitated your encounter with the police.”

  “That would be Eleni. She’s not around, and I have no way to reach her. As for summoning?” I pause long enough to smile. In the movies, split personality types call their various identities into consciousness at will. If only that were true, our lives would be a lot easier. “The truth, Doctor, is that we have no central identity to do the summoning. If Eleni were observing, there’s a chance she would appear spontaneously. But she’s in hiding, in disgrace, hopefully repenting for the monumental screwup that put us in this position.”

  “That’s fine, Victoria. Just tell me what you know. Eleni and I will meet later on.”

  Do I detect the beginnings of a leer? Because we could live with the sexual interest, a natural consequence of a childhood passed in bondage to a sexual sadist who liked to entertain his friends. Eleni, especially, would be eager to accept the challenge, assuming there’s a deal in the offing.

  “All right, I’ll describe the events as best I can. Eleni? Well, she has a theory. Bodies have needs. There are the obvious, of course, to eat, drink, breathe, and sleep. But there are others as well, including sex. Eleni has decided—”

  “On her own? Against your will?”