A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “Who are you?”

  A sharp, sardonic voice interrupted Rachel’s reflections. The flowing music had ceased. The organist who asked the question was not who Rachel had expected to find playing such evanescent music.

  It was one of the three girls who’d been at the hospital, the one with short black hair that was sleek and glossy, dyed neon blue at the tips. She had a pointed, unmade-up face and a skin like thick Irish cream. She was still wearing the black coat, the collar tacked straight up. Rachel noticed now that a series of baroque antique silver pins had been substituted for buttons on her coat. A silk scarf at her throat in a blaze of vermilion completed her ensemble.

  The girl was an original. She was also beautiful, but not in a conventional sense. It was something about her expression—the sheer force of life contained in her vivid blue eyes. She watched Rachel with an expression of skepticism, and she must have deduced who Rachel was because she’d spoken in English with a strong Québécois accent. Rachel answered the girl in French and asked her name in turn.

  “Réjeanne Beaudoin. I’m a student at the Université Marchand.”

  “You’re local?” Rachel asked, wondering why she was persisting with her French when the girl was answering in English.

  Réjeanne nodded. She straddled the bench, resting one hand on the keys. Strong hands, Rachel saw. And the right hand was shadowed, the blue and green tints of a bruise showing at her knuckles.

  “For my sins, yes.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You have to ask?”

  It was an oblique reference to the shooting. To the chaos that was expanding to claim all of Saint-Isidore. Maybe that’s why Réjeanne was at the church, losing herself in the transcendent music she had played.

  “What hymn was that?” Rachel asked. She was deeply interested in music, the legacy of being the daughter of Lillian Getty, an aspiring concert pianist who had retired upon her marriage to Don Getty. Rachel knew a lot of church music, but she hadn’t recognized the piece Réjeanne had played.

  “Nothing you know.”

  Listening to the girl’s sharp, uncooperative responses, Rachel had a better sense of why Lemaire had suggested she conduct the interview.

  She leaned against the railing. “It wasn’t a hymn really. I’d call it ‘Concerto of Spring.’ It was bursting with hope … but it was tender beneath its energy.”

  Réjeanne looked at Rachel more closely.

  “You play,” she said.

  “I’m learning.” Rachel smiled. “My mother was a pianist. She taught me a little about music. But I can’t play anywhere near as well as you.” She tipped her head back to catch the fragments of light the rose window scattered over the organ. She had a sense of being suspended out of time—in a place of utmost harmony. She wished Réjeanne would take up the music again.

  “I’m a music student,” Réjeanne said, after a pause. “That was my own composition.”

  Rachel looked back at her, alert. “It was beautiful.” She considered the girl’s age. “You must be some kind of prodigy.”

  Réjeanne didn’t smile, but her expression lightened. Her free hand played with her scarf.

  “Not really,” she said. “I hear the music, of course. But it’s been a lifetime of grueling study.”

  “If you have a keyboard, you should play that at the vigil.”

  “That’s not how Muslims conduct their mourning.”

  The words took Rachel by surprise. They suggested an intimacy with the Muslim community that Rachel hadn’t expected from Réjeanne. Another assumption, despite the fact that she and Khattak had been advised that the members of the Lilies of Anjou knew Youssef and Amadou. She reconsidered, sharpening her focus.

  “You were at the hospital last night. Did you know any of the victims of the shooting? Is that why you were there?”

  “I was there for my friends. They wanted to be there.”

  “I talked to your friend Chloé. She was anxious to know about Youssef Soufiane’s condition.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Réjeanne was fencing with her.

  “Were you?”

  “Of course. I’m a human being. Don’t let the getup fool you.” She shook her hair out of her eyes, caressing the neon-blue tips with thin white fingers.

  “Is that the only reason you were there? To support Chloé?”

  Réjeanne’s eyes blinked, catlike. “No. There was also Amadou to worry about. Émilie was worried about him.”

  “But not you. Not personally.”

  A private smile etched Réjeanne’s lips. “Not personally. Men don’t interest me.” She paused, waiting to see if Rachel had drawn an inference from her words. She ran her hand lightly over the organ’s keys. “What interests me is music, nothing else.”

  “Not quite nothing,” Rachel pointed out. “If you were at the hospital, if you know something about Muslim funeral customs, your friends must matter to you.”

  “Of course they do.”

  She turned back to the organ, rearranging her posture and her limbs, bringing her hands to the keys. A gentle refrain floated through the alcove, evocative of longing and loss.

  Rachel scanned the alcove as Réjeanne played, searching for places where someone might have hidden a gun. Apart from the organ, and the bench Réjeanne was sitting on, there were no repositories in the alcove, no additional places she could search. Unless there was a way of dropping the weapon inside the organ’s wind-chest. She put the question to Réjeanne.

  “How does the organ sound this morning?”

  Réjeanne fingered the keys beneath her hand.

  “Fine. Sublime. Like it’s only been waiting for the morning to come alive.”

  A dead end there, then. But Rachel would still check.

  Addressing the girl’s back, Rachel said, “Where were you last night after nine p.m.?”

  She received an answer she wasn’t expecting. The girl turned the melody dark, casting a glance at Rachel over her shoulder.

  “I was in the woods.”

  “The woods? Alone at night?”

  A stroke of apprehension shivered down Rachel’s spine.

  “I didn’t say I was alone. I was with my friends, deep in the woods. Far away from the mosque. I don’t know if it would have been better or worse to have been there.”

  Rachel refused to be distracted, though the shape the music had taken, dangerous and disturbing, was giving her a feeling of queasiness.

  “What were you doing in the woods? Practicing a ritual?”

  The girl’s hands froze on the keys. “Why would you ask that? Being fond of nature doesn’t make me some kind of witch.”

  It was Rachel’s turn to score a point. “No, you’re not, are you? You’re a Lily of Anjou. I’m just not sure what that is.”

  She let the silence build. It served a purpose. No matter how poised this gifted musician was, she couldn’t be certain her secrets were safe from a detective. Everything Rachel asked her had a point to it. Réjeanne revealed things even when she withheld information. As Rachel waited for a response, she moved to the side of the organ, peering at its pipes.

  “What are you doing?” Réjeanne asked sharply, the music coming to a close.

  Rachel looked at the girl, her face spattered with droplets of light, soft and expressive with sympathy. Her words were a sharp contrast.

  “I’m trying to determine who murdered twelve people last night.”

  Réjeanne raised a hand to her throat, her wrist twisted outward.

  The same tattoo that had stamped Chloé’s wrist was delicately etched on her skin.

  She hadn’t thought of it before, but now Rachel considered the meaning of Youssef Soufiane’s knife wounds. And the fact that someone had taken the time in the midst of pandemonium to carve that emblem onto Youssef’s skin. The fleur-de-lis again.

  What had Réjeanne and her friends been doing in the woods at night?

  And what were the rituals of the Lilies of Anjou?

 
; 29

  Réjeanne denied any further knowledge of events and refused to explain her activities in the woods. She slipped away down the staircase without a backward glance, pausing only to collect a coffee-colored satchel that thumped against her leg. When Rachel examined it more closely, Réjeanne hitched it over her shoulder and fled.

  Why? What was in the bag that Rachel couldn’t know about?

  Frowning, she turned her attention to the bench. It was expensive, padded with oxblood leather, but it didn’t open. In fact, the bench was locked. Rachel would need to find the key. Perhaps it was in Père Étienne’s office—she’d have to look for it to rule the bench out as a hiding place for the gun.

  That left the organ itself. Maybe there were openings at the tops of the pipes. Some of them were large enough that an object could have fit inside. But Rachel couldn’t reach the top of the wind-chest from the floor. She moved the bench closer to the organ. It was better, but not ideal. She had to perch on her tiptoes to reach the top. Carefully, she braced herself against the pipes. But she’d leaned over too far. She slipped a little on the bench and her free hand came down on the keys. The discordant sound filled the alcove.

  Lemaire called up to her.

  “I’m fine.” But her breath came out in a gasp that indicated otherwise. She heard movement from below. Perhaps Lemaire was coming up to join her. Better hurry in that case. She was hardly at her most elegant, stretched out over the pipes.

  She reached up on her toes again, positioning herself more securely. She had enough height now to see into the pipes, whose inner reaches gleamed in the light, unmarked by layers of dust. The passageway was clear, but the light didn’t reach to the bottom.

  If she stood on the organ itself, her view would be unobstructed. But maybe it was worthwhile to see how well her hand could fit inside the largest of the pipes first. It was a stupid place to hide a gun because an organ in such good repair was probably serviced regularly. Still, she needed to cross it off her list.

  Teetering now, she reached her hand inside the pipe. The gleaming metal was warm. Experimentally, she flexed her hand, stretching it as far as she could. Yes, she thought. A handgun could fit inside the pipe. She changed the angle of her hand to be sure, bracing it inside the tube. Suddenly something pushed against her leg. A door banged and she heard a rush of footsteps. As her foot slipped on the bench, her hand was wrenched from its position with a painful twinge. Her body overbalanced and she flew back toward the railing.

  A whimper escaped her lips as she fell, narrowly missing the hard stone rail and the open chasm below.

  Christian Lemaire caught her mid-flight, but the weight of her body unbalanced him. She landed on him with a thud, all of it happening so fast that she couldn’t sort it out in her mind.

  She lay still for a few moments, struggling to catch her breath. She became aware that her elbow was digging into Lemaire’s ribs and that he was lying quietly beneath her. She scrambled off his body, mortified by her clumsiness, but Lemaire didn’t stir. His eyes were closed, his breathing winded.

  Then she noticed the giant bump on his forehead.

  It was bleeding. He’d intercepted her fall, but he’d caught his head on the rail.

  Horrified, she took out her phone, her fingers trembling over the numbers. And then she realized the only line she’d been given was Lemaire’s. She tried Khattak instead. Before she could complete the call, a low groan sounded from Lemaire.

  “I’m all right,” he said with a vestige of his former teasing tone. “Don’t panic. No need to call an ambulance.”

  Easing away from him, Rachel whispered, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “That was quite a stunt,” he teased. “Remind me to put in for combat pay when I’m working with you.”

  “I’m so sorry! Inspector Khattak is usually the one to suffer the results of my enthusiasm.”

  Lemaire leveraged himself up from the floor on one elbow. He eyed Rachel with mock suspicion.

  “Enthusiasm, eh? That’s what they’re calling it now?”

  Rachel couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I’m like a bull in a china shop. I hope I didn’t damage the organ.”

  But she didn’t turn to look, her gaze fixed on the bump at Lemaire’s temple. She found a tissue in her pocket and held it against the steady trickle of blood.

  “I’ve seen the way you move. I wouldn’t call you clumsy. Anyway, it wasn’t your fault. Someone pushed you, Rachel.”

  Her startled eyes flew to his. “You saw them? Was it Réjeanne?”

  He shook his head, then groaned at the effect of the movement.

  “That’s it,” Rachel decided. “I’m calling someone.”

  Lemaire caught her by the wrist, staying the call. She felt a stunning flash of awareness and saw it reflected in his eyes. His voice a little rough, he said, “Not necessary. Just help me get up.”

  With a doubtful look at his bulk, Rachel helped shoulder Lemaire to his feet. He took his time, leaning against the railing.

  “Were you out for a moment, sir?”

  “No.” His breathing evened out. “I was just mortally embarrassed by my failure to catch you. I didn’t want to face your wrath.”

  Rachel gave him a crooked grin, disbelieving.

  “Isn’t that more embarrassing than just admitting you were knocked out cold?”

  When Lemaire smiled back at her, she felt her heart seize up in alarm. What was happening to her? She’d never reacted to a man like this—not even to Nathan Clare, a friend of Khattak’s. She’d had a brief entanglement with Nate that had come to nothing in the end. Now the storm of her response to Lemaire broke over her like a wave. She was deeply, viscerally attracted to him.

  Trying to push past the stunned realization, she concentrated on what he’d said.

  “How did you know someone pushed me?”

  “It was a reasonable guess.” He gestured at the wall on the far side of the bench. “There’s another door there, behind the curtain. I was coming up the stairs to check on you. Whoever pushed you used the other door. I didn’t catch them in the act—I saw the curtain rise as the door slammed shut.”

  He looked doubtfully over the railing. “I could have chased them. But I thought it might not be a good idea to let any harm come to Khattak’s cherished partner.”

  Rachel blushed at that.

  Lemaire gave her a lazy smile. “What?” he asked. “It’s obvious in the way he talks about you, in the way he defers to your opinion.”

  Rachel cleared her throat. “That’s just good police work, sir. I’m an excellent detective.”

  Lemaire’s smile broadened. His gaze flicked to the bench: it was a comment on Rachel’s near disaster.

  “What were you doing?” he asked.

  “Looking for the gun. There was something a little too dismissive about Réjeanne’s answer when I asked her if anything about the organ was off.”

  “I didn’t notice any discrepancy. The music was resplendent.”

  Rachel gazed at Lemaire without speaking. That was exactly the word she would have chosen to describe Réjeanne’s soaring composition. Feeling overwhelmed, she gripped the edge of the rail.

  “It was just an instinct,” she said quietly.

  Lemaire frowned. He leaned over the bench and ran his hand over the keys. The notes came out full and round. Rachel shivered at the sound—at the unintentional closeness between herself and Lemaire.

  “I’ll send in an expert to take a look. In the meantime, there’s still Père Étienne’s house.”

  Concerned, Rachel pointed to his bruise. “Shouldn’t you get that looked at first?”

  The bleeding at Lemaire’s temple had stopped. He motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. She’d thought he wouldn’t answer, but his wicked murmur reached her.

  “If I stumble on the way down, at least the landing will be soft.”

  30

  At the station, Khattak turned his p
hone over to Paul Gaffney. The latest encrypted message had self-destructed, but between Gaff and Benoit, they were prepared to tear his phone apart to find out who had sent the threatening texts. There had been three in total now, and each message indicated the sender’s proximity to Khattak, with such thorough knowledge of his movements that he was beginning to suspect someone on the INSET team. He looked over to where the team coordinator was keeping track of each officer’s assignments and adding them to a timeline.

  He didn’t intend to share his discoveries with anyone other than Rachel and Lemaire. He couldn’t expect Lemaire to keep him abreast of developments if he didn’t do so in exchange. Lemaire accepted his request for discretion, hurrying off to a meeting with Isabelle Clément, while Rachel brought Khattak up-to-date.

  Neither of them had any solid leads. There were gaps in alibis, there were unaccounted-for movements by parties tangential to the crime, but there was nothing concrete for any of them to go upon—except to keep trying to track the firearms.

  Gaffney came over to join them, a new phone in his hand that he handed to Khattak.

  “Someone keeps trying to call you; I’ve forwarded your calls to this number.”

  Whoever was threatening Khattak hadn’t called. They’d only sent text messages. It could have been an escalation, but when he checked the new phone the number that registered was Alizah’s. He called her back at once, dismayed to hear the panic in her voice.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  He sorted patiently through her words. When he made sense of them, he was shaken by a futile sense of rage. He soothed Alizah into silence, promising to call her back. Lemaire was still busy with Clément. Staring blindly around the room, he noticed Rachel watching his face, waiting her chance to speak.

  “Did you have a chance to interview Étienne Roy today? Could you determine what kind of state he’s in now?” He heard the grating demand in his voice, but Rachel took no offense.

  She shook her head, her ponytail flaying her cheeks.

  “We need to see him at once. But first, I need you to tell me about the church.”

  “Why? What did Alizah say?”