A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Khattak paused. His chest was hurting; his throat was numb—he wondered if he should continue. But he thought of Youssef Soufiane; he thought of Amadou and Alizah and everything she’d faced when her sister had been murdered—he thought of the children he and Sehr might raise in a fractured nation one day.

  And he made himself go on.

  “When you reprimanded them—perhaps in the same confessional where I’m speaking to you now—one of them let it slip. One of them told you they were planning an attack on the mosque. Perhaps you thought you’d dissuaded them, perhaps you only put the pieces together later that same night—and that’s why you were at the mosque. You went there to warn the imam. But you also went there to stop someone—perhaps you thought your presence there would force them to reconsider. But it didn’t, did it, Père Étienne? And they haven’t come back to confess.”

  A comprehensive silence fell in the little booth. Khattak felt weightless in the dark for a moment, disoriented by the absence of stimuli. His head was throbbing, but he knew he was almost there. He had to get to the end. He had to induce Père Étienne to speak. Now, and again later on the stand.

  He pressed his face against the screen, stretching the bruised tendons of his neck.

  “Who was it, Père Étienne? Who made that confession to you? Was it Maxime Thibault?”

  The silence persisted. Then the priest’s hand came up and slid the screen closed. A long, slow creak indicated that he had exited from the confessional. When Khattak opened his own door, he was blinded for a moment by the vibrant warmth in the church. His eyes dazzled by it, he stumbled forward a step.

  A strong arm was there to catch him and set him right.

  Amadou whispered his concern. Esa patted his shoulder. His vision cleared and Alizah was standing on his other side, pain and dread in her eyes.

  “What happened to you, Esa? You look like you’ve been attacked.”

  He meant to reassure her, to reassure them both, to promise them a safety he knew was out of reach. But he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “The same thing that happened here. The thing that will keep happening now that lines have been drawn. We won’t be on the inside again … perhaps we never truly were.”

  Tears filled Amadou’s eyes. They glistened like diamonds on his skin.

  “No, brother, don’t say that. You of all people—don’t say that.”

  He held up his index finger and pointed it at the sky. He placed his other hand over his heart.

  “Don’t tell us that this marks us. Don’t take away our hope.”

  A hot rush of shame swept through Esa’s body. Ignoring the ache in his shoulder, he reached over to pull Amadou into his arms.

  “Forgive me, Amadou. Both of you, forgive me.”

  Alizah’s eyes made a desperate appeal—wanting something from him … the same things Amadou wanted … comfort, encouragement, belief in a future of safety and belonging. Then she seemed to change her mind, tilting up her head.

  “Amadou,” she chided. “Look at what he’s been through. Give him a little time.” Her eyes swept over the church, lingering on those who’d come to offer their support by joining the Muslim prayer. “We’re meant to bear each other up through times like these.” With a note of humility, she added, “We did our best with our program today. But we weren’t looking to take them on. We were trying to speak to our own.”

  And he remembered his last day in Waverley, when he hadn’t known if he’d failed or succeeded in solving Miraj’s murder and Alizah had turned to Rachel and said, This one will take everything to heart. Hold him so he doesn’t shatter.

  She was looking at him now with that same compassion in her eyes. She could be strong for him when he couldn’t be. She didn’t judge his weakness. Even when things in Waverley had turned out as they had, she’d made him believe the work he was doing mattered. Her faith in him had carried him through things he’d thought he couldn’t bear. A man dead at his hands. The loss of those he loved. The dishonoring of his name upon a national stage. And still she’d continued to write him, offering him her belief. He could see it now in her eyes, and he made himself acknowledge the truth.

  He loved her.

  In some way, he had always loved her. For the faith she had shown in him and the connection she had done her best to keep alive. And then for accepting without protest when the time had come to let go.

  She blinked in surprise at the look on his face, jewel-bright tears in her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her lips, a gesture that struck him as a loss.

  He knew now why he’d never forgotten her, why he’d given up writing to her with a sorrow he’d never expressed. The loss she’d suffered had changed her, yet her inner belief was undimmed.

  And he couldn’t fathom how the man she’d loved had thought to look past her to another.

  But then love was never made to order—one could spend a lifetime unraveling its mysteries. He was still finding it hard to believe that Sehr had forgiven him his blindness.

  The sound of the organ swelled through the nave, the grace notes of the “Song of Farewell” offered as a counterpoint to Amadou’s recitation of the call to prayer.

  No accompaniment to the music could have been as profound.

  Esa’s gaze traveled round the church. He caught sight of Sehr, whose entrance he had missed. He smiled at her, but when Alizah followed his gaze and gave Sehr a little wave, Sehr didn’t smile back, her eyes dark as she turned her face away.

  Startled, Esa made his excuses. He’d caused Sehr too much misery to leave her in any doubt about Alizah.

  Sehr was his future. He had closed the door on the past.

  47

  ÉLISE DOUCET’S BLOG

  [Translated from the French]

  ÉLISE DOUCET

  Montréal, Québec

  * * *

  ÉLISE DOUCET: I have no words for how appalled I am that our priest gave up our church to these infidels. Look what they did with it.

  ROY GRENIER: More proof they didn’t come to fit in. They came to take over our sacred institutions.

  EDITH SAUCIER: That black boy. The murderer. He gave their voodoo call INSIDE THE CHURCH!!!

  ROY GRENIER: They get everything their way.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: Not for long. Not if we speak in one voice, like we did for the Code of Conduct.

  ROY GRENIER: We got nowhere with the Charter of Values.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: That was just a battle … this is the real fight.

  PLOUFFEPLOUFFE: Goddamn right. We need to come out and say it; we need the Charter of Values, we need the Code of Conduct, and we need Bill 62. We need laws that represent our values. I’m not going to apologize for having superior values. The Rest Of Canada knows it.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: It’s not that Québec is racist; it’s that Québec is right.

  PLOUFFEPLOUFFE: Funny how the world follows white culture while refusing to accept that we have the right to protect it.

  EDITH SAUCIER: Ha-ha, ROC. White is right. White is might.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: There’s plenty in the Rest Of Canada who think so, too. They’re just hog-tied by the liberals.

  EDITH SAUCIER: Père Étienne giving in to Sharia law. What a nightmare.

  ROY GRENIER: It’s not our land anymore. It’s Sharia for all of Canada. Watch for No-Go Zones.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: Then do something to fight back.

  RONNYP: What would you suggest we do?

  ÉLISE DOUCET: Organize. Join one of our groups.

  PLOUFFEPLOUFFE: Like?

  ÉLISE DOUCET: That should be obvious to you.

  PLOUFFEPLOUFFE: I like the young Wolves in the Allegiance. They’re the future of Québec.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: We all need to be Wolves. Unless we’re willing to give away more than just our church.

  EDITH SAUCIER: I heard the black boy was after our girls.

  ABEAUTIFULMERCY: It’s not just him. It’s all of them. We should be taking action.

  ROY GRENIER: I don’t care if that
makes me sound racist, that’s not something we need. There’s such a thing as too much assimilation.

  CANDLELIGHTVIGIL: I don’t care what religion someone chooses to believe in. No one should have to die while they’re peacefully praying.

  ÉLISE DOUCET: All the more reason why they should have stayed out of our church. And out of Saint-Isidore.

  ABEAUTIFULMERCY: They’ll figure it out too late.

  * * *

  48

  Rachel met Dr. Marlyse Sandston in Christian Lemaire’s office. A soberly dressed black woman in her forties, she was seated at the desk and invited Rachel to join her. Slightly intimidated by the doctor’s professionalism, Rachel sank down into a chair.

  “Thank you for coming on board,” she said. “We’ve been needing your help. We should have asked for a profiler the minute the case came to us.”

  Rachel passed over the stack of photographs from the envelope. She waited with her arms braced against the desk.

  Dr. Sandston studied them for some time. Then she raised her head.

  “Are any of the photographs more intimate than these?”

  Rachel frowned. “Uh—not that I’ve seen.”

  “That may rule out a sexual fixation, but it’s possible that there will be others that are more personal in nature. Whoever took these photographs may be hoarding others. And there may come a time when photographs we haven’t seen yet are delivered to Inspector Khattak, at a moment designed to cause maximum harm—personally and professionally.”

  Rachel mumbled her response. “He’s not exactly a player, Dr. Sandston. He had his wife. Now he has Sehr Ghilzai.”

  Marlyse’s analytical glance seemed to dissect Rachel’s unspoken thoughts. “Every man has his secrets. His amours … his private vices.”

  Awkwardly, Rachel said, “Inspector Khattak is a practicing Muslim.”

  Marlyse Sandston looked at her pityingly.

  “Religion isn’t a shield against our needs. I don’t want to disillusion you about your boss, but you need to be open to the idea that he may have reasons to keep his own counsel.” She pointed to one of the photographs. “This one, for example. What does it say to you?”

  Rachel followed the other woman’s gaze. Panic swooped through her stomach.

  The photograph was new.

  It hadn’t been among the others.

  And it wasn’t a copy, like the ones she’d kept in her possession. This one was an original. Someone had been close enough to Rachel to add the photograph to her collection.

  The question wasn’t when or how. The question was who could have done it?

  She shot a panicked glance around the common area—to Gaff and Benoit chatting in one corner. But Benoit had never had access to the photographs. The only part he’d played had been to act as a witness to the transmission of the chain of evidence.

  Then who? Who else had access to Christian Lemaire’s office?

  Marlyse Sandston was still waiting for Rachel’s reaction to the photograph. Trying to recover her poise, Rachel took a closer look at it.

  It was a photograph of Khattak and Alizah. Though it was a close-up, there were noticeable details in the background. The photograph had been taken at night. There was a blur of movement behind their stationary figures—light glinting off trampled cellophane, the dark shape of an oak tree, and people scattering to the four winds in a panic. And behind Alizah off to one side, the back of a polo shirt marked with the words STOP THE ISLAMIZATION OF QUÉBEC.

  Rachel absorbed the details without speaking.

  “This was taken the night of the vigil.” She struggled to explain, trying to ignore the sense that she owed the other woman an apology. “Events spiraled out of control when members of the Allegiance showed up.”

  “Yet not so out of control whoever was following Inspector Khattak didn’t have time to take this photograph without getting caught.”

  “Meaning it’s someone who blends in?” Rachel asked.

  Dr. Sandston tapped the photograph impatiently.

  “Look at it, Rachel,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”

  This time Rachel focused on Khattak and Alizah. They were so closely attuned to each other’s presence that Rachel was worried.

  “Yes.” Dr. Sandston was nodding. “You see it, too. Inspector Khattak’s pursuer—for want of a better word—isn’t taking random photographs. They understand the relationships in his life. They know who’s important to him. They might even understand those relationships better than he does himself.” Her razor-sharp gaze pinned Rachel. “Is this Sehr Ghilzai?”

  Deeply reluctant to admit it, Rachel shook her head.

  “Look at the way he’s looking at her. And the way she’s looking back at him.”

  “It’s not sexual,” Rachel flared.

  Dr. Sandston cut her off.

  “No? But then it doesn’t have to be. It’s extremely intimate. You can see that she means a great deal to him. But if you look at his body language—” One beautifully manicured fingernail tapped a section of the photograph. Khattak’s fists were clenched at his sides, the lines of his face taut with tension. He was poised between a step back and a half-step forward. Moving closer to Alizah. And yet if he’d moved to touch her, the photograph didn’t bear witness to the act.

  “Who is she?” the profiler asked.

  Uncomfortably, Rachel offered, “Her name is Alizah Siddiqui. She’s a student at the college here. But we know her from one of our cases. She’s become a friend to us both.”

  Dr. Sandston’s beautiful eyes were not inquisitive. She was making a sober assessment. “Was she a witness in your case?”

  God, Rachel thought. Dr. Sandston’s questions were so penetrating that she would have come in handy during their interview of Pascal Richard.

  “She’s the sister of a murder victim. We solved her sister’s murder.”

  Something in Dr. Sandston’s expression shifted. Her shoulders relaxed and her voice became pensive.

  “Then that could explain the intimacy,” she said.

  Suddenly she smiled, and her smile was so brilliant that she became more than just a colleague who was weighing Rachel’s every word.

  “You’re saying you misread things?”

  Dr. Sandston seemed to sense her relief.

  “I’m offering you possible interpretations of this photograph based on information you’ve shared. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Rachel stayed quiet.

  Sighing, Dr. Sandston continued, “Your faith in your partner is encouraging. It gives me something to work with. If he’s the man you believe him to be, he may not have those kinds of secrets to expose.” She studied the picture of Khattak and Alizah. “There are other kinds of love.”

  Rachel struggled to make sense of Dr. Sandston’s assessment.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Dr. Sandston rearranged the photographs on the desk, singling out two from the rest.

  “That’s you with Inspector Khattak, isn’t it?”

  Rachel wiped the sweat from her forehead, feeling like an insect on a pin.

  “Th-they’re from another case,” she stammered. “He saved me from drowning that night.”

  “Have you looked at his expression?”

  Rachel had no need to. The image of herself in Khattak’s arms and the devastation on his face were seared behind her eyes.

  “I can see why you defend him; it’s obvious that you share a deeper connection than most partners.”

  Rachel set her chin. “It’s not out of line. And it’s definitely not personal. We just make an excellent team.”

  But if Khattak wanted to leave that team, what did that mean for her?

  “I wasn’t suggesting it was.” Dr. Sandston’s reply was mild. “I was simply trying to draw your attention to two important points.”

  Rachel settled back in her chair and crossed her arms. It was a mimicking of her father’s unassailable posture. She hoped it made her look strong.
r />   “What points?”

  Dr. Sandston arranged the photographs in a particular order. She’d left out the photographs of individuals and included only those that indicated a personal relationship.

  “The person who took these photographs has been studying Inspector Khattak for months, if not years. He or she understands him very well. They understand that personal connection is the thing he values most.”

  Rachel eyed the photographs again. It was a disturbing conclusion. How could someone on the outside—or on the periphery of Khattak’s life—understand him so well when Rachel was still in the process of figuring out the things he chose to keep to himself?

  “So you’re saying it’s not a stranger. It’s someone who’s close to him.”

  Dr. Sandston inclined her head. “That’s the likeliest possibility.”

  “There’s another?”

  “It could be an extremely astute individual displaying elements of psychopathy.”

  “Oh, that’s definitely better.”

  Rachel wasn’t sure if she was joking. She felt a little bit like the good doctor had just cut her open to examine her insides without offering an anesthetic first.

  She backtracked over their conversation, trying to pin something down.

  “You said there were two points about these photographs—what’s the second one?”

  Dr. Sandston’s response was inescapably gentle.