A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

She shot him a look of alarm. Had she missed something, something that had been seriously troubling him?

  “You’re overdue for a promotion. I know Superintendent Killiam thinks so as well.”

  Rachel spoke through lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Well, that’s great, sir, but that doesn’t change anything at Community Policing, does it?”

  Khattak’s hands were clenched, setting off alarm bells in her head.

  “You’d make an excellent director,” he said.

  “Sir.” She slammed on the brakes at a traffic light she’d missed. “You’re the director. You’re the one who brought me on board. I wouldn’t want to stay on without you.” She cleared her throat, deeply uneasy. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

  There were no other cars on the street, so Rachel put the car in park. She turned in her seat to face him. He gave her a curious look, deep and searching and entirely new to the parameters of their relationship.

  When he didn’t speak, Rachel plodded on.

  “Is this about Sehr? Are you thinking of getting married?”

  He hesitated, so Rachel plunged in.

  “That doesn’t have to change anything, sir. I’d be very happy for you.”

  Now at last, Khattak smiled. The smile she knew, sweet and teasing, and the ramrod tension in her spine eased.

  “It’s not about Sehr. I haven’t spoken to her about this. I wanted to speak to you first.”

  Rachel swallowed. She tried not to blink at the turn the conversation had taken.

  “You can talk to me, sir.” She tendered each word carefully. “You know that, I hope.”

  “I do.” Still he hesitated, choosing his words. “What happened at the mosque … what happened at the station, it reinforced something I’ve been considering. I don’t know that I add value to this job anymore.”

  “Is this because of your run-in with Diana?”

  He shook his head. “No. She didn’t say anything I haven’t already heard. From everyone.” He looked defeated. “Except you. And Sehr. We both saw a value in working from the inside. But Sehr’s not a prosecutor anymore, and I’m not sure that my future still lies with Community Policing.”

  Very carefully, Rachel asked, “You’re saying you think you haven’t been effective?”

  His mouth twisted, and at the bitterness of his expression Rachel’s heart sank.

  “I’m saying that it’s hard for me to walk into a mosque where twelve individuals who share my faith have been murdered … most likely because they practice it … and do nothing other than stand back as a neutral observer.”

  Rachel felt the tears well up in her eyes. Khattak swore softly.

  “Rachel—”

  “No, it’s all right, sir.” She willed the tears not to fall, rubbing a quick hand across her eyes. “I’m fine. But how can you call yourself an observer? There’s nothing neutral about you.”

  “There isn’t?” He sounded disturbed.

  “No.” She forced a laugh. “Working with you—it’s like seeing the mirror image of myself. You project neutrality, but you’re ferociously committed to the work. Look how you stood up for Amadou. You forced that onto their agenda, you know you did that, right?”

  “You’re giving me too much credit. Lemaire doesn’t strike me as a bigot.”

  She scoffed at the explanation. “You don’t give yourself enough. You’ve got more that you want to say, is that it? You can’t take the pressure? The only senior brown cop—the only Muslim? Come off it, sir. What do you think it’s like for me? For any woman who tries to slog her way to the top? You remember our first case? You remember Salvatore Costa?”

  A reluctant smile edged the corners of his mouth.

  Heartened by it, Rachel went on. “He was such a pig. Every single day he made a comment, just not loud enough for you to hear. Then one day I come in and he’s got a nudie calendar tacked up on the board and he’s watching for my reaction. ‘Come on, Rachel,’ he says. ‘Don’t break a guy’s heart. Stick your picture up there. You can be Miss January—just you and a hockey stick, that would do it for me.’”

  Seeing Rachel’s face through the glass door of his office, Khattak had opened his door and taken in the scene. He’d ripped the calendar from the bulletin board in a single concise gesture, turned to Sal, and said, Get your things and get out; you’re no longer a member of this team. Then he’d looked around the room at the rest of them—Paul Gaffney, Declan Byrne, Rob Sharma, and he’d said in a tone that lowered the temperature in the room, If any one of you attempts to harass Sergeant Getty or any other female colleague, I will personally see to it that he’s out of law enforcement.

  They’d looked at Khattak, guilty and embarrassed. They hadn’t been part of it, but they’d allowed it to continue with their silence. A silence Sal had read as tacit endorsement.

  Khattak had called only Rachel into his office.

  I know it’s hard to fight this, Rachel, given what happened at your last post, but I wish you would. You’ll have my backing, and you won’t have to face it alone.

  She’d looked at him in horror, stammering an apology, and after seeing her panic he’d let her escape and put the incident behind her. But the entire team had been required to attend training on the issue of harassment. A confidential reporting system had been established, but after Salvatore had left there’d been nothing further for Rachel to report. At least not on her own team. In the field, there were always outliers, but Rachel’s confidence had skyrocketed once she knew she had Khattak at her back.

  “You showed up,” she said simply. “You didn’t just talk the talk. You made everything about being a cop better. You should know what a difference you’ve made.”

  They were at a crossroads. To the north of the bridge was the campus. To the south, the creek meandered off into the woods, while parallel to the road ran a set of train tracks, the mournful notes of the horn sounding from a great distance, adding pathos to the early dawn.

  Khattak cleared his throat. Rachel was glad he didn’t thank her, because she didn’t know how much longer she could swallow back her panic at the thought of him leaving her behind.

  “I think I’m failing, Rachel.”

  She wasn’t buying that.

  “You’re just angry. I think you’ve been angry for a while, but you’ve trained yourself not to show it.”

  She started up the car again, aiming a lopsided smile at Khattak.

  Startled at her words, he met her gaze. She couldn’t help herself. Her whole heart was in her eyes. He swallowed at what he saw there. Her personal faith in him. He reached out for her hand and squeezed it hard.

  Her voice rough with emotion, she said, “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  25

  Squeezed in beside Khattak, who’d stretched out his long legs in front of him, Rachel sat back on the small sofa in the campus radio station, enjoying the warm rapport that existed between herself, Alizah, and Khattak and into which Amadou Duchon was now being inducted.

  She’d managed a few hours of sleep back at the hotel and now she felt ready for the new day’s challenges, though her worries about Khattak were gnawing at a corner of her mind. He didn’t look like he’d slept all that well, though there was something about his good looks that was enhanced by the shadows under his eyes. She would have envied it except that she knew he’d probably stayed up praying for the souls of the victims. She hoped he’d have a chance to rest later that afternoon.

  The campus studio was cozy—Alizah was seated behind the desk; Amadou wandered in and out of the sound booth, testing sound levels while Alizah fiddled with the microphone. One wall of the room was covered in a collection of vinyl records that made Rachel’s mouth water—so many of her favorites were there—Bowie, Joni Mitchell, Blue Rodeo. They were crammed into a corner shelf at eye level, a little at odds with a wider selection of famous Québécois singers and North African rai. Tacked to the back of the door of the sound booth was a signed Céline Dion poster, the singe
r posing in a shimmering gray minidress, her sincerity blazing from her eyes.

  Was it hanging there as some kind of cool-campus-kid mockery?

  Amadou met her gaze solemnly. With perfect seriousness, he said, “She is still the queen.”

  Rachel tried to seem like she agreed, though she unironically preferred The Police.

  “You’re okay?” she asked Amadou, studying him. “No aftereffects?”

  “I’m okay.” His demurral was at odds with the weariness in his face. “A black man learns very early what to expect from police.” The words were neither bitter nor resigned. They spoke of matter-of-fact acceptance, belied by the gleam of resistance in his eyes. And despite her extensive training in community relations, Rachel couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t come off as dismissive of Amadou’s experience. She simply nodded, holding his gaze.

  She had thought that Alizah and Amadou would be at a vigil outside the mosque or at the hospital trying to get word on whether there were any survivors of the night’s attack. She also thought that the shooting might have driven Alizah home to Waverley—considering the memories it must have brought back.

  Fists banged on the glass window of the studio. A look of disgust on her face, Alizah pushed the mic away and stood up, smoothing her hands against her jeans. It was Maxime Thibault who’d rapped his fists against the glass—perhaps in a greeting, though the group of young men around him made obscene gestures at Amadou. Maxime’s fixed stare didn’t waver from Alizah. Slowly, he ran his tongue over his lips.

  She scowled in fury, but Khattak didn’t let her intervene.

  He stepped outside, speaking too quietly for them to hear, but whatever he’d said, the young men moved off. As Khattak stepped back into the studio, Rachel caught the explicit racial slur aimed at his back.

  She wasn’t surprised—Thibault had used an epithet to her face; why would he spare Khattak?

  “You need protection from them.” Khattak said this to both Amadou and Alizah.

  Her tone scornful, Alizah replied, “From a gang of preppy thugs? I don’t think so.”

  “No.” Khattak shook his head decisively. “From Thibault. He’s exhibiting classic signs of stalking. And that can escalate quickly.”

  Amadou nodded wisely. “I’ve been telling her, sir. She doesn’t listen.”

  Alizah looked over at her friend, a sweet smile breaking on her face.

  “I have you, Amadou,” she said simply. “You never let me out of your sight.”

  “Ya Allah.” He patted his chest once with his fist. “Now you know why.”

  “We have to do the program today,” Alizah explained. “It’s more important than ever.”

  “Why?” Khattak kept his eyes on her face and she blushed.

  “You didn’t hear the morning drive time? Pascal Richard is already sharing his crackpot conspiracy theories—riling people up. He’s not the least bit apologetic for his role in this.”

  “Who’s Pascal Richard?”

  Alizah and Amadou answered together, feeding off each other’s words.

  “He’s a local radio shock jock.”

  “He’s a cretin.”

  “He’s a monster. He’s been fanning the flames of racial bias here since the passing of the Code of Conduct.”

  “His following is enormous—his show has been syndicated and he’s drawn all manner of crazies to this town. His shows are an example in incitement.”

  “Incitement to what?” Rachel broke in. She was thinking uneasily of the sections of Canada’s federal Criminal Code that spoke directly to hate crimes. She hoped Alizah and Amadou weren’t exaggerating the impact of a lone voice on the radio.

  “To hate,” Alizah said. “To all the things that have happened here.”

  “The Wolf Allegiance’s anti-Islam rally,” Amadou supplied.

  “The pig’s head at the mosque.”

  “The attack on the synagogue.”

  “That time they set fire to the imam’s car.”

  “It’s endless—there’s a new obscenity every day. I don’t mean like the shooting last night. I’m talking about the little things that led up to it. That’s why Alizah petitioned for her own radio show on campus. As a rebuttal to Pascal’s, so we could take them on.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Amadou. You’re the one who rounds up all the guests. You’re the one who takes the call-in abuse.”

  “They abuse you, too,” Amadou said gently. “Just in a different way.”

  “It’s much worse for you.”

  “Is it? Max is not after me.”

  “Amadou—”

  “Alizah,” he chided.

  Their byplay reminded Rachel of one of her mother’s favorite movies, His Girl Friday, where Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell had starred as a pair of battling journalists with snappy patter and rat-a-tat dialogue that had always delighted Rachel. In the case of the movie’s two leads, the banter had been a means of expressing sparkling romantic interest. In Alizah and Amadou’s case, it was the empathy of two friends who knew each other well and who could be counted on to have each other’s backs.

  A little like Rachel and Khattak.

  Which reminded her again of the conversation she’d had with Khattak in the car; she wondered whether she’d convinced him not to give up on their work. Without him, their unit would be left rudderless—and without much difficulty she could imagine it being dissolved.

  Khattak’s quiet voice cut into her thoughts.

  “You said today’s show is important. What are you planning for today?”

  An apprehensive note crept into Alizah’s voice. She fiddled with the microphone, avoiding Khattak’s gaze.

  “We’re having a memorial. By reading out the names of the victims from last night.”

  Khattak’s eyes narrowed.

  “That information hasn’t been made public because we haven’t had time to notify all the victims’ families. We’re also waiting on news from the hospital. So how could you have a list?”

  Braving his gaze, Alizah answered, “Diana Shehadeh gave it to us. She didn’t say that we couldn’t use it. In fact—”

  “In fact?”

  “She’s the guest on our show today.”

  Khattak looked over at Rachel, who squared her shoulders.

  “That’s a terrible idea. We’ve been keeping a lid on things here, so far. Speaking to Diana Shehadeh will only blow that up. You’re not ready for that, Alizah. None of us are.”

  Alizah was wearing her hair in a long, dark braid. She leaned over the electronics board, and the braid fell forward. She was considering Rachel’s words seriously. She’d grown up in the intervening years, a measured young woman who had taken time off from school to work after her sister’s death and who had now nearly completed her graduate degree. She seemed to be heavily involved, not only in her program of study but also in a range of extracurricular activities that included the Muslim Students Association and her program on campus radio. What she had to say in response caused the hairs on the back of Rachel’s neck to stand up.

  “That’s what they said when we showed up to council meetings to make our position known on the Code of Conduct. When politicians refused to speak to us, they said we were stirring things up. It’s what the police said when we reported Pascal Richard for hate speech—and then later, when we began to document each incident. ‘Let’s keep a lid on things. Let’s not let them blow up.’ Well, they just blew up at our mosque.”

  Amadou moved closer to Alizah. He didn’t touch her in any way, yet his solid presence was clearly a source of comfort.

  If it were Rachel, she would have hugged him. But through her work at Community Policing, she’d learned that observant Muslims did not engage in casual contact with members of the opposite sex. She’d seen as much with Khattak—until he’d lowered his guard with Sehr, the woman he hoped to marry.

  She’d also seen him with Alizah—protective, the way he was with his younger sisters, but mindful o
f an appropriate distance.

  He wasn’t as reserved with Rachel. She could tell that their relationship—as partners, as friends—fell into a different category in his mind. A category of one, where you could count on your partner to save your life as often as she spoke her mind.

  This was one of those times when Khattak would have to speak. And she wondered how closely his private thoughts might reflect Alizah’s.

  But he was a law enforcement officer first.

  “No, I’m sorry. Even if Diana gave you the list, she has no way of knowing if it’s accurate or up to date. It would be irresponsible to misinform the families. You know that, Alizah. It’s not something I need to explain.”

  The fleeting pain that showed in Alizah’s eyes was a quiet confirmation of his words.

  Amadou rapped his knuckles against the sound equipment. He was staring beyond Khattak’s shoulder at the hallway where students had begun to line up at the glass, some waving at Amadou, others whispering and pointing.

  News about Amadou’s detention had gotten out.

  Amadou ran his thumb over his lips. He didn’t wave or smile or even fling up his head in a confrontational gesture. His quiet dignity spoke for itself as he met the gazes of the others head on. One by one they dispersed.

  He shifted his attention to Rachel, taking her by surprise.

  “What did you think I would do?”

  Discomfited, she didn’t answer.

  “What about the interview?” Alizah asked.

  Khattak considered it. “Diana Shehadeh usually finds a way to speak her mind. If you’re not prepared for that, your interview might result in the same outcome. Do you think you can handle her?”

  Alizah smoothed her palms over her jeans before she answered. “We’re mainly going to speak about the vigil.” She bit her lip. “There’s a rumor that Maxime’s followers are planning to stage some kind of rally. We want to make sure our vigil isn’t disrupted.”

  Rachel thought that was a terrible plan.

  “Won’t drawing attention to their plans on public radio only encourage more of them to show up?”

  Alizah was quick to respond. “It’s not directed at them. It’s an appeal to the rest of the citizens of Saint-Isidore. To show up for the victims of the shooting.”