10
Khattak and Rachel photographed the flyers. Khattak put a call through to Lemaire, asking for the immediate dispatch of a crime scene unit. There was more than a strong possibility that the vandalism of the student group’s office and the shooting at the mosque were connected. There were certain features in common. The slashing of the door and the spray-painted swastika indicated the same kind of rage that had characterized the furious rain of bullets inside the mosque. But the posters—designed in advance and neatly arranged around the door in order to tell a story—spoke of premeditation. The same kind of premeditation that had allowed a killer to escape the scene of a mass shooting without being caught. A premeditation that would explain the presence of two different types of weapons, as well as the calculation behind the executions in the basement of the mosque. Four bodies in the basement, one in the hallway upstairs—cold, precise, purposefully targeted.
When the crime scene unit arrived, Alizah took Khattak and Rachel to a coffee shop near campus that was open late. It was crowded with anxious students busily discussing the shooting. A few of them tried to approach, but Alizah waved them off with a frown. From their quick retreat to cell phones, he knew it wouldn’t be long before reporters arrived.
Rachel went to fetch their drinks and Khattak took the opportunity to say a few words to Alizah. She looked older than her years, in her mid-twenties now, a gravity in her face that was new, a hardening of purpose that showed in her eyes but not her face. She was as beautiful as Miraj had been—perhaps more so now with the maturity lent by the passage of time—the kind of beauty reflected in the silent appreciation of young men in the café, men who would welcome the chance to rescue her from anything that caused her grief.
“You’re staring,” she said at last to break the silence, a flush rising to her cheeks.
“Was I? I’m sorry. I was thinking of the last time I saw you.”
“I wrote to you after that.”
“Until you stopped.”
The families of crime victims often maintained ties with him—meeting before and after the trial phase of proceedings, sometimes needing to share their grief with someone who knew too well everything they had lost. Alizah had also written to Rachel, but it was Khattak whose career she had followed and Khattak whose advice she sought.
He’d treated her the same way he treated his sisters, though perhaps with greater insight into what she needed from him. A space away from her grief … from her family’s grief … though Miraj would always be the thread that bound the two of them together.
“After the case at Algonquin, you stopped writing.”
Alizah traced a pattern on the table.
“I didn’t want to be another of your burdens. Or one of your lost causes.”
Tears sprang to her eyes.
Khattak lowered his voice. “How could you have thought that?”
She bit her lip.
“Because you didn’t write me, either. You didn’t call my parents like you used to. You just … vanished.”
Khattak felt a stirring of regret. He could explain that he’d traveled to Iran, then to Europe and Turkey. He could share the toll those cases had taken, and Alizah would understand. But it wouldn’t be the truth. The truth was too sensitive to express. He’d become disturbed by Alizah’s dependence on him—worried that she wanted something he couldn’t give. After her sister’s death, he’d become the significant male figure in her life—too significant. She’d been trying to cross a boundary Esa would never cross. He’d seen distance as the appropriate response. She’d drawn her own conclusions from that.
Rather than hurt her, he said, “You’re right. After the case in Algonquin, I spent some time working on a deradicalization project. I’m sorry if that made you think I’d forgotten Miraj or any of you in Waverley.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. A young man jerked to his feet from a neighboring table, his anger barely contained. He wore a navy-blue blazer over a blue and white shirt. His hair was cut short and well-groomed, his eyebrows a pale shade of blond. But in spite of his good looks and preppy appearance, he projected an air of menace.
“You shouldn’t be talking to Alizah without a lawyer. Everything about you screams that you’re a cop. Both of you.” He jerked his chin at Rachel, who had made her way back from the bar, a tray of coffees in hand.
Alizah passed a weary hand over her forehead.
“Like you care, Maxime. Like you’re a friend to anyone like me.” Her hands clutched the edge of the table until her knuckles shone white. “Why don’t you go back to your Wolves?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He took another step closer and Khattak pushed back his chair. Alizah rose to her feet and faced the young man down.
“Ask him where he was tonight,” she said to Esa.
“Why?” Khattak asked, his neutral tone deflating the tension in the room. “Who are you?” He spoke to the younger man directly. He was met with a look of scorn.
“I’m not talking to you.”
Both hands on her hips Alizah glared at him, her air of vulnerability erased as if it had never been.
“Meet Maxime Thibault. He founded the local chapter of the Wolf Allegiance.”
11
Catching up quickly, Rachel introduced herself. A nod from Khattak indicated that she should take Maxime aside. She moved to another booth, grabbing her coffee from the tray she passed to Khattak, aware that he was seeking to de-escalate the confrontation between Alizah and the boy. After a moment’s indecision, Maxime accepted her invitation to join him, either not wanting to lose face after what he’d said about the police or because he saw Rachel as a challenge. To disarm him, she called the waitress over and ordered him a drink.
As she slid into a seat opposite Maxime Thibault, she made her own lightning-swift assessment of the boy. Despite his posturing, she thought of him as a boy, maybe a couple of years older than her brother, Zach, who was twenty-three. Suave, smooth, and arrogant, Thibault had a chip on his shoulder roughly the size of Québec. Whether it was aimed at male authority, law enforcement, or something else would take her some time to figure out. His English was fluent, far better than Rachel’s French, but his accent wasn’t Québécois. It sounded distinctly Parisian, and everything about him spoke of unlimited wealth. The watch on his wrist, the loafers on his feet, the blazer with its discreetly monogrammed logo. He’d even tucked a pale pink ascot into the neck of his shirt. But why was a kid with money stuck in Saint-Isidore?
Granted, it was a much prettier locale than where Rachel had grown up in Etobicoke, but if this kid had been educated in expensive foreign schools what would bring him to this town?
“You’re a student at the university?”
She sipped at her coffee and waited for him to speak.
“How did you end up working for one of them? Sergeant Rachel Getty. That’s an upstanding name.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not a fucking kike, are you?” He shook his head. “No. If you were, you’d be in charge. Not kowtowing to a raghead.”
The vicious insults were shocking in the context of his appearance. When had prep school blazers and knife-edge creases taken the place of white hoods? And if these were Maxime’s views, why had he tried to defend Alizah from Khattak? Despite her lighter skin tone, there was no way Alizah could be mistaken for a white woman. On the other hand, her unequivocal beauty could make many an individual set his scruples aside.
Rachel slouched down in her seat, projecting an air of fellowship.
“Don’t think he’s wearing a rag, is he?”
Thibault’s eyes became glassy. He tapped his nose. “On the inside. They’re all wearing it on the inside, but they take it off to blend. Like Jews who hope they can fool us by anglicizing their names.”
He spoke with an air of such reasonableness that Rachel found herself answering him.
“Don’t know how you feel about the Irish. My Da just liked the name Rachel.” She took another s
ip of her coffee and then she said, “Where were you tonight? It’s obvious you’ve heard about the shooting.”
Apart from the strange glassiness of his eyes, he was too relaxed for Rachel to imagine that he’d taken part in a mass shooting hours before. He was a young man playing at greater menace.
“On campus,” he said. “Hanging out with my friends. Why? Am I a suspect?”
He sounded pleased.
Rachel shrugged, deliberately offhand. “You can see why I might think that.”
“That’s just lazy police work. Just because a cleansing needed to happen doesn’t mean I’m the one who carried it out.”
The waitress brought his coffee to their table and he reached out and squeezed her hand in thanks. She smiled at him as if she knew him, accepting a tip and blowing him a kiss.
The contrast between his behavior and his words was chilling.
“Maybe not,” Rachel agreed. “But that Wolf Allegiance stuff. Seems like vandalizing the Muslim students’ office might have been up your alley. You’re a member, right?”
His white, even teeth snapped shut. “Founder. Far above the Wolves. Vandalism is for thugs, not for those gifted with vision.”
“Is that what you are? A visionary?”
“Of course.”
“So what’s your vision, then? Something apocalyptic? Four white horsemen and so on?”
Maxime’s smile was slow and charming. Rachel wondered if he thought it would disarm her. She’d already assessed the fit of his clothes for a handgun. He had a laptop bag on the seat beside him; she’d have paid good money to search it.
“You’re mixing your metaphors, Rachel. My brothers represent deliverance, not death. That’s what makes it so simple. There’s a natural order of things. And I think we can agree on who should be at the top.”
Rachel sighed. “What about the ones underneath, then? Are you saying what happened at the mosque was justified?”
Thibault inched closer, appraising her. She caught the scent of mint and coffee.
“Have you heard of natural selection?” Even his beautiful Parisian accent couldn’t make his meaning less ugly. Rachel let him creep closer. From the corner of her eye, she caught Khattak’s instant alertness. She made a quick “I’m okay” motion.
“I’d say needing a gun to achieve it is pretty unnatural, wouldn’t you? Would you happen to own one? Is there one in your bag?” She nodded at the laptop bag on the seat.
Thibault shifted back in his seat, but not before Rachel had seen his blink of confusion.
“That’s why women shouldn’t be in law enforcement. Leave the thinking to men.” He patted his bag. “As if a gun that could do that kind of damage could even fit in this bag.”
Rachel sat up straight, focused and intent. “What kind of damage are we talking about? And how do you know about it?”
Maxime choked on his coffee, spluttering a little. He used a napkin to wipe his mouth, but all of it was theater. He was buying himself some time.
“I’ve seen a lot of movies,” he said. “I’m assuming it was an assault rifle. The kind of gun you can get just about anywhere in the States.”
Rachel belabored the point. “So you’re saying there’s no assault rifle in your bag.”
His hand tightened on the bag. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“Mind if I look for myself?” He hesitated and Rachel pressed her advantage. “Natural selection suggests a mind like yours would dispose of the weapon as soon as possible.”
No details about the shooting had been revealed on the news. The Canadian press were notoriously taciturn; they would wait for the facts to be established. Canadian police officers were even more so. So Maxime wouldn’t know the rifle had been found on the scene and that what Rachel was really looking for was the missing handgun.
Falling into the trap, Thibault shoved the bag at her. “Go ahead, you stupid dyke.”
Rachel snagged the bag from his hands and checked each of its zippered compartments, taking her time. She found a laptop, a spare ascot, a student handbook, and some papers. When she moved to unzip an inner pocket, Thibault’s hands jerked as if to stop her. She looked up at him and he shrugged.
A hush had fallen over the café. Everyone was watching Rachel search the bag. A couple of Maxime’s friends came to stand behind him, their arms crossed over their chests. They were dressed in the same preppy uniform, the lieutenants of Maxime’s movement.
“Nazis,” she muttered as she dug her hand deep inside the pocket. Something solid bumped against her knuckles. She fished it out. It was a mobile phone.
“That’s mine,” he said sharply. “Put it back.”
Puzzled, she slid it back, her hand brushing against a piece of paper. Seeing Maxime tense, she slipped the sheet of paper from the bag and laid it on the table. Though he met her gaze defiantly, he didn’t say a word.
It was a copy of one of the flyers she had seen at Alizah’s office.
12
Lemaire sent members of his team to pick up Thibault, extending an invitation for Rachel to join the interview. Khattak told her to go, he’d walk back and join her at the trailer where Lemaire had set up camp.
It was nearly midnight and the temperature had dropped. When Alizah told him she intended to return to help the families at the mosque, he walked her back. He didn’t want her out alone on the streets after midnight. He offered her his jacket, but she refused.
“Maybe it was for the best that you didn’t write,” she admitted. “I needed to figure things out on my own. I needed to start again, and now I have.”
The dark shadow of a desecrated mosque lay between them and for a moment they observed it in silence.
“Something about you is different,” she said. “You seem lighter somehow.”
He was surprised by her observation. “After what’s happened here?”
In her usual forthright way, she said, “You haven’t faced what’s happened here yet. It’s too soon for it to be real. You seem … happier. Have you met someone?”
Alizah smiled a little sadly at the quick response she read in his face.
“Does she love you?”
She must, Khattak thought. She did. Sehr hadn’t stayed in Greece to hurt him. Or to make him pay for his long years of silence. She might not accept that the time they had spent struggling to find their way was warranted—valuable, even—but she wasn’t the kind of woman who thought her mystique increased the more she held herself back. Like Alizah, she was forthright about what she wanted.
He smiled sideways at her.
“Not nearly as much as I love her.”
He changed the subject. They were close to the mosque and he still had questions to ask.
“Do you think Maxime Thibault is the one behind the attack?”
She took some time to consider, kicking a small stone over the bridge into the creek. A river of mist shrouded the bridge, making it seem cut off from the town spread out below.
He wouldn’t think about what waited at the mosque.
He would focus on the assailant.
The mass murderer.
Alizah’s breath whooshed from her chest.
“I wonder if he’s clever enough. I’m not sure that he is. But I have this feeling—”
He could no longer see her in the fog. Her voice was as cool and shadowy as the moonlight silvering the fog.
“Whoever did this found it easy to disappear. Maybe that’s because they’re one of us.”
“Someone from the mosque?” he said sharply.
“No.” Her voice floated back at him. “I meant someone from Saint-Isidore. Someone we know, go to school with, work with—someone who can keep their composure after they’ve committed an atrocity. I don’t know if that fits what I know of Maxime, but there’s a chance that it does.”
Her face appeared again. She was hugging her bare arms and Khattak insisted she take his jacket. She buttoned it close around her, easing into its warmth.
After a
moment, Khattak commented, “He was certainly behind the vandalism of your office. Yet at the same time he was protective of you—do you find that odd?”
She answered with some reluctance. “He wasn’t like this when I first met him. We started off as friends.” She looked embarrassed. “It took me a while to see that he wanted more than friendship. But before I could figure out a way to let him down, he fell in with this other crowd, and then he became someone else. He became the kind of person who could join the Wolf Allegiance.” She shivered. “It flies in the face of everything he now stands for, but he hasn’t stopped pursuing me.”
Khattak’s stomach churned. “Has he threatened you? Or harassed you?”
Or anything worse? he wanted to ask but couldn’t bring himself to.
She flashed him a compassionate glance, and he was struck, as always, by Alizah’s self-possession. Her friends were likely among the dead at the mosque, yet she tried to reassure him.
They were silent until they reached the mosque. There were families gathered in the parking lot, alongside other members of the congregation. Alizah nodded at them, seeing people she knew.
Turning from him, she said, “I’ll be all right. I’m going to stay here until they leave; then I’ll go home with one of the families. They’re going to need support. I won’t walk back to campus on my own.”
They both remembered that Miraj had been alone by the lake on the night of her murder.
“You didn’t answer me about Thibault.” He tried to suppress the protectiveness in his voice, the concern that exasperated Ruksh, the older of his two younger sisters.
Alizah heard it anyway and reached out to press his hand.
“He’s never touched me,” she said. “He won’t. He prides himself on some twisted notion of chivalry. I’ve asked myself if the way he harasses us on campus or down at the mosque is simply his way of getting my attention.”
“Then he’s not a racist? He’s just looking for a way to impress you?”
“Oh, he’s a racist,” she said matter-of-factly. “A Nazi through and through. And I don’t mean that as a casual slur; it’s the Wolf Allegiance’s stated ideology. But he hasn’t been able to let go of me, and surprisingly, that’s not completely at odds with the Wolves’ ideology. They like the idea of submissive Asian girlfriends who take their orders from them.”
A Deadly Divide Page 5
