A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Her eyes narrowed. “You were watching me? You’re such a creep, Maxime.”

  “That’s the thanks I get for dragging you out of that mess?”

  “The mess you made,” she pointed out.

  “Whatever.”

  He wasn’t able to conceal his hunger as he looked her over. She brushed the dirt and grass from her palms, both her knees still stinging. Before she’d learned about his connection to the Wolves, they had been friends. But once she’d understood his views, once Alizah had made it clear that even friendship wasn’t possible as long as Max was allied with the Wolves, something inside Max had curdled into this hate-tinged lust. He couldn’t stand himself for wanting her. But he also couldn’t stand to let her go.

  “Why do you want me, Max? I’m no different from the people you came here to harass. The people you’re probably happy were killed at the mosque last night.”

  “Where do you get off making assumptions like that?”

  Though his eyes and voice had darkened, she wasn’t afraid of him.

  She pointed to the logo on his chest. “Your actions speak for themselves.”

  She didn’t know why she was engaging in this pointless conversation. She should be with the others, searching for Amadou. Esa had moved away, scanning the perimeter. She knew he was looking for her.

  She put up a hand and waved to let him know she was fine. The sight of Maxime Thibault at her side seemed to give him pause. He started in her direction. A sudden warm glow flared up in her chest.

  Maxime jabbed a finger in her face.

  “I never took you for a whore.”

  She slapped him without a second thought.

  “Don’t ever call me that.” Disgusted, she added, “It’s all the same with your kind. You hate minorities; you hate women; you hate anyone who won’t bow to your toxic creed.”

  He stood there silently, his hand pressed to his face. She must have caught him off-guard. He didn’t move, didn’t try to touch her or hit her back. Not that she would have let him. Her hands were curled into fists, and she was poised on the balls of her feet. She knew how to take care of herself.

  “It’s not about hate,” he told her coldly. “We have the right to defend ourselves, and the Québec we want. Before our culture and history are swept away by the tide.”

  His hand was still pressed to his cheek, lightly patting the place she’d slapped him.

  And though Alizah despised Maxime, she felt a pang of pity as she understood why. She hadn’t really hurt him—she couldn’t.

  The slap was the first time she’d touched him.

  * * *

  Then Esa was there, interposing himself between Alizah and Max, ice in his voice, as he asked Maxime what he’d done.

  “Did you assault her?”

  Maxime shrugged. “She’ll probably tell you I did.”

  Alizah shot him a furious glare. “I’m not a liar, Max. He didn’t hurt me,” she told Esa. “He dragged me out of the way.”

  His voice clipped with anger, Esa warned, “Please find Amadou and go back to your residence. This is no place for you.” Then with a little less control, he said, “I told you to stay at the gate, Alizah. Don’t make it hard for me to do my job.”

  She battled an unexpected response to his concern. She read it as proprietary. From Maxime’s expression, he did as well.

  “I was trying to get to Max,” she said. “I thought he might listen to me.”

  Behind her, Max snorted. He kicked at the grass, dislodging a little clump. He scowled at Khattak.

  “Look how she twists us around. You. Me. Amadou. God knows which one of us she wants.”

  Her cheeks flushed under Esa’s steady regard. She glanced at Max, reading the sullen longing in his eyes. She couldn’t keep herself from feeling sorry for him, but she couldn’t do anything about it. His unsolicited feelings were not her problem. His hate-fueled politics were.

  If she owed him Max anything at all, she would have told him the truth.

  She’d lost the man she wanted. She would never get him back.

  38

  There was no amount of damage control Lemaire could do that would be enough now. The vigil had gone just about as badly as Rachel had anticipated, and the fallout would dominate the next news cycle. The premier, the INSET team, and the Wolf Allegiance were under fire to varying degrees. It was rumored that the prime minister would be visiting Saint-Isidore to pay his respects at the mosque, creating additional security problems for Lemaire’s team to manage. No progress had been made on the firearms or on the investigation. As a result, Rachel was surprised that Lemaire hadn’t been summarily removed from his post, but judging from his discussions on the phone, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  There were a handful of police officers left in the park, keeping an eye out for signs of disturbance. While Lemaire was on the phone, Khattak was in the unenviable position of defending his actions to two angry women at once: Diana Shehadeh and Isabelle Clément. Rachel waited for him, her arms crossed under her chest, ready to step in if he needed backup. She was expecting a moment of reckoning from him, not knowing what Sehr might have said. She couldn’t ask her, either, because Sehr had returned to the hotel, finding herself in Esa’s way in the midst of the ongoing debriefing. Rachel hadn’t had a chance to talk to her yet and was still puzzling over whether Sehr’s arrival had made any difference to Khattak. He wasn’t on the defensive speaking to the two women; rather, he sounded like he was on the attack.

  “There should have been stronger measures against the Allegiance from the start. That was my recommendation to the premier.”

  Diana Shehadeh waved at the mess left behind in the park. “Don’t try and cover your inadequacies. If this is your idea of serving the community, no wonder you’ve been a disappointment.”

  “I’ll speak to you in a moment, Diana. Isabelle, the only appropriate response is to shut down the Allegiance at once.”

  Isabelle’s response was as dispassionate as Rachel had grown to expect. She let her eyes trail over the now-destroyed memorial for the victims, the wholesome signs trodden by angry feet, flowers and stuffed toys scattered over the grounds.

  “Inspector Lemaire gave clear instructions to members of his team. That should have been enough to handle the situation.”

  “They were protecting these murderers,” Diana interjected. “They weren’t here for the people who came here to pray.”

  “The prayer was a provocation.”

  Diana’s laugh was bitter. “It seems to me in la belle province it’s our existence that’s the provocation.”

  Esa turned on Diana again. “This isn’t helping. Can you wait for me by your car?”

  “Why? So you can cover this up? I don’t think so, Esa. I’m here to watch exactly how effective you are.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, a rudely dismissive gesture.

  Sweet holy Christ. What the hell was Khattak doing?

  Rachel cleared her throat, intending a reminder that he needed to play fair. He shot her a glance—bleak and resonant with anger. She swallowed a hasty response.

  His jaw set, he said to Isabelle, “The mayor’s office issued the permit for the congregational prayer. Surely you knew that?”

  Isabelle’s gaze flicked to Diana Shehadeh.

  “It was my understanding that the permit was granted under considerable pressure.”

  Khattak’s response slashed the sudden silence. “Inspector Lemaire did not instruct his team to shrink the perimeter around the prayer. Someone else is responsible for that.”

  His green eyes were shrewd and insistent.

  There was a protracted pause.

  Finally, Clément admitted, “Thibault threatened to release a statement to the press declaring our decision to squash his protest as unconstitutional.” She moistened dry lips. “He didn’t just argue for freedom of assembly. He insisted it was an issue of freedom of expression—he said that Québécois values were being dragged back into the Dark
Ages.”

  Khattak’s expression became set. He ignored the group of girls who had come up behind them to clear the litter from the ground. Isabelle’s gaze flicked over them and back to Khattak.

  “And you gave in to them? Just like that?”

  Her response was pure vitriol.

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t have offered reasonable accommodation? Isn’t that what you always demand?”

  Diana sputtered with rage. “How dare you say that? How dare you wield civil rights protections on behalf of out-and-out Nazis?”

  Khattak held up a hand and was ignored by both women.

  Isabelle’s reply was icy. “My concern is to represent all the citizens of Québec, not just a group of special interests. I’m sorry if that offends you.” Her expression made it clear she wasn’t sorry in the least. “Sometimes the truth is hard to hear. But there are no ‘safe spaces’ in politics.” Her tone became sneering, the words directed at Khattak. “Nor in police work, either, I’m afraid.”

  She stalked away from them to issue instructions to the girls who were trying to repair the memorial. The Lilies of Anjou had come to the vigil, Rachel realized with a start. She had last seen them at the press briefing on Youssef Soufiane’s death. She was surprised that only a few hours later Chloé had found the strength to make her way to the memorial. Chloé and the other Lilies were joined by Amadou Duchon, whom Isabelle Clément skirted as if he posed a danger to her. She moved closer to Chloé, and to Rachel’s surprise, she gave the younger woman a hug.

  Perplexed, Rachel noticed that Amadou was whispering earnestly and at length with Émilie Péladeau. From his body language, he was trying to persuade her of something.

  Lemaire rejoined their group. He didn’t seem fazed by the dressing down he’d just received from the premier’s office. Maybe such things were as commonplace in the Sûreté as they were in Community Policing.

  Khattak’s new phone made the sound that heralded a text.

  Instead of reading it, he beckoned them close and held up the phone. They gathered in a circle as Khattak pulled up the text for them to read.

  Soufiane is dead. One of you will be next.

  He took a screenshot of the message, then handed his phone to Lemaire.

  “What the hell is happening here?” Diana Shehadeh’s horrified gaze moved from face to face. But none of the police officers could offer a cogent answer in the face of so many unknowns.

  Khattak’s phone sounded again. This time Lemaire held up the message.

  Richard is about to blow the roof off your world.

  Vive la France. Vive le Québec libre!

  Speaking through gritted teeth, Diana demanded, “Inspector Lemaire. Can we expect that you’ll take some action to defuse another incident like tonight’s?”

  Lemaire nodded. His evident sympathy seemed to infuriate her further.

  “I came to tell you that the mosque has been cleared for use. There won’t be a repeat of tonight. The mosque is easier to defend.”

  The terse, pragmatic words sent a shiver down Rachel’s spine.

  How could they be speaking of a place of worship like this?

  Khattak jerked his head at Lemaire. “I’ll head there, now.” He addressed Diana. “Come with me and we can talk.”

  Lemaire nodded. “I’ll pass your phone on to your man Gaffney. I’ve also had a call about security footage. We may have just gotten a lead.” He turned to Rachel. “It’s late and you need a break. I can catch you up in the morning.”

  It was true—Rachel was exhausted. But there was too much adrenaline pumping through her veins. With a subtle gesture of her chin, she urged Khattak to take note of Amadou and Émilie. They’d moved away from Isabelle Clément, who was frowning at them over Chloé’s shoulder.

  Khattak nodded once.

  “Amadou!” he called. “We’re headed to the mosque. Would you like to join us?”

  With a grimace of relief, Amadou removed Émilie’s hand from his arm. He detached himself from the group without another word.

  Rachel moved away with Lemaire back to the station.

  Something about the entire tableau had disturbed her.

  And it wasn’t the naked threat that had surfaced on Khattak’s phone.

  39

  Diana Shehadeh drove, Khattak in the passenger seat, Amadou in the back of the car, his head resting on the arm he’d braced against the window.

  “You didn’t do enough,” Diana told Khattak. “They’re running roughshod over you, over what you’re supposed to achieve. When they called you in to head up Community Policing, I thought at last we’d have a voice.” She shot him an angry glance as she made a right turn. “But having you here is no different from not having you here.”

  He fought himself for a brief moment. He’d stayed silent too often in the past, and now the rage that simmered beneath his composure was threatening to overcome him. He held it back until she added, “The one thing I’ve never been able to tell about you is where your loyalties lie. What good are you to us when you’re always performing for them?”

  She spoke as though there weren’t a third person in the car—a witness to the crime, an individual who was implicated in events, though Khattak didn’t know to what extent.

  His temper snapped.

  “I’m sick to God of answering that question. It’s not a performance.”

  Diana snorted. “Oh yes, it is. You perform for us. But time after time, you end up disappointing the audience.”

  This was so manifestly unjust that Khattak needed a moment to respond. How had he ever imagined that he and Diana were partners—that they’d ever been on the same side?

  He shook his head, angry, rattled. “It doesn’t work, Diana. These categories you try to box us into. ‘Us—them.’ It doesn’t work. Chloé Villeneuve—she’s devastated by Youssef’s death. She loved him.” He indicated Amadou, listening intently in the back seat. “Amadou and Émilie—there’s something there as well. And even someone like Max is able to see Alizah as a person. We’re not on opposite sides because of who we are. That kind of thinking is reductive.” He clasped his hands together because he wanted to strike something hard. “It’s completely dishonest.”

  He shifted in his seat to look at Amadou.

  “Isn’t that right, Amadou?”

  The young man’s expression was curiously defenseless.

  “You want to know about Émilie.”

  “She seemed angry at you in the park.”

  They had reached the mosque. He motioned to Diana that she should go ahead without them, passing her the keys to the door. He lingered with Amadou near the car, not yet ready to read the secrets of the mosque.

  “No, not angry.” Amadou tipped back his beautifully shaped head, his eyes as large and inky as the night. “Émilie is a very nice girl. She’s always been so supportive. She knows what it’s like to be an outsider—she told me she could see it in my face.”

  “See what?” Khattak kept his voice soft and low, his anger at Diana fading at the rhythmic cadences of Amadou’s voice.

  “What it’s like not to belong. To keep trying and failing because the barriers that surround you are too strong. Too insurmountable.” He reached over to pat Esa’s shoulder. “You must know what that’s like. So does Diana. That’s why she’s so angry.”

  Khattak sighed. The brotherhood Amadou was offering wasn’t one he had any right to claim. The systemic barriers faced by Amadou as a black man, the ever-present aggressions that battered each corner of his identity, were daily injuries he and Diana didn’t share.

  Searching for the right words, he said, “Not like you. Nothing like you, Amadou.”

  “Well.…” There was nothing Amadou could add. They both knew it was true.

  “What did Émilie want from you, then?”

  The young man’s muscles tightened.

  “She wants something she cannot have. She wants my love. She believes she can save me from the ugliness here by giving me the gif
t of her love. I have become her project.”

  There was no contempt in his voice, just a soft, regretful sadness for a girl who’d misunderstood and whose unacknowledged advantages had caused her to lose her way.

  “You’re not interested?”

  Khattak wondered if Amadou realized he was being led through an interrogation. He wondered if he should remind him that it was his job to hunt down the person who had carried out the killing spree at the mosque.

  Amadou switched to French, his words caressing the night.

  “I want to marry a girl from Senegal. A girl with rich, dark skin and eyes as deep as the ocean. A girl I can take to the mosque who will stand by my side in prayer. She will speak my language, and know my history—I won’t have to build a wall; I won’t have to tear one down. I want a woman who shares the journey I make to my Sustainer.” A sweet smile graced his lips. Ruefully, he said, “I am engaged to be married to a woman like that. Émilie is very kind, very sweet. I value her as a friend without wishing for anything more. Youssef was willing to take that risk, but I want a woman who knows what it is to live in two worlds at once.”

  The poetic words made an impression on Khattak; they mirrored the relationship he’d had with his wife, Samina, who even after her death held a closely guarded place in his heart. The heart he had only recently opened to Sehr.

  “Does Émilie know that?”

  Amadou sighed. “She knows, but she hasn’t accepted it. She keeps trying to change my mind. I don’t mean to be unkind, but she is using the shooting as a means of insinuating herself into my life. I don’t want it. I don’t think she realizes how dangerous it is for us both.”

  His attention flagged, Khattak asked, “What do you mean? What danger does Émilie represent?”

  Amadou’s reply was succinct. “The danger of a white woman involved with a black man—a Muslim—in a town like Saint-Isidore. Plus, she’s on the radar of Thibault and his thugs. They used to be friends with the Lilies, so they’ll never be able to accept Émilie’s attraction to me. They might call me names. The names they call her are worse.”