A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  She was saved from whatever he might have said by someone calling her name. Amadou—hailing her from across the road. He’d joined Réjeanne and Chloé and Émilie, and she could see that he needed her as a buffer against the others. Speaking to Esa over her shoulder, she said, “Réjeanne wants to talk to you. Let me see what she wants.”

  He didn’t stop her. When she looked back, he was heading to the ambulance, and she knew his first concern was the woman who’d been attacked. She should have been Alizah’s first concern also—but Alizah had a fine-tuned sense that events were moving too rapidly for her to wait, they were escalating … and her attempt to reach Maxime might have consequences she hadn’t foreseen … consequences uglier than what they’d faced so far.

  Something told her that whatever the motive behind the shooting at the mosque was, there was a small group of actors at the heart of it. Maxime. Amadou. Youssef. The Lilies of Anjou and herself.

  51

  When the church had emptied and the remaining officers had dispersed, Khattak had a quick conversation with Lemaire and Rachel. The young men who had been taken into custody had been quickly processed and released. Khattak questioned the wisdom of this, but Lemaire put it down to optics.

  “There’s no way in hell I can hold the Muslim kids, and if I don’t hold them, I can’t hold the Allegiance. Not with the circus in town.” He gestured at the reporters.

  Khattak made his voice sharp. “Are those Isabelle’s instructions? Shouldn’t she be dealing with this?”

  “She has her hands full with the premier. But you can talk to her yourself if you like.”

  “I will.”

  He left Lemaire to his work. He’d had a few words with those members of the congregation who remained with Père Étienne. From the agonized expression on Père Étienne’s face, he could see the priest had taken his words to heart. Words trembled on his lips that he couldn’t bring himself to speak. And then Esa’s attention was claimed by two members of the mosque who asked him to visit one of their homes and speak to their community privately. He sorted the details out and walked back outside to find Rachel.

  She had been joined by Sehr, and his thoughts brightened at the sight of her. He reached out and took her hand, wondering if she would object to this public demonstration of his interest. Inwardly, he shook his head at himself. The word “interest” was too civilized to convey the depth of his emotion. Taking her hand was like claiming her, as he’d wanted to do for so long. If she pushed him away now, he didn’t know what he would do.

  She linked her hands with his instead, peering at his face with worried eyes. For his ears alone, she whispered, “I don’t think this is what the doctor meant when she told you to rest.”

  His smile at her was warm, intimate, as he bent his head to hers. “As long as you don’t tell Ruksh.”

  Sehr didn’t smile back. “I mean it, Esa. I’m worried.”

  Instantly contrite, he tugged her closer. “I’m sorry. I did try to prevent this. In the end, I couldn’t.” The rest slipped out before he could think better of saying it. “Thank God Alizah was able to calm things down.”

  Sehr didn’t say anything, but there was a curious twist to her lips.

  * * *

  A few steps away, Rachel cleared her throat. She had shaded her eyes with her hand and she was looking up at the sky with a frown.

  “This is bloody July,” she muttered. “Why are there no days without rain?” She hesitated at the sight of Khattak and Sehr, with their hands entwined and the aura of two people exclusive to each other. She was happy to see that things were back on track.

  Khattak seemed to read Rachel’s mood. He said something to Sehr. She frowned and drew her hand free of his, urging him to go ahead without her.

  “I’d like to speak to Rachel for a moment, though.”

  Khattak nodded, striding across the road to join Alizah and Amadou’s group.

  Rachel braced herself. Growing up in Don Getty’s house meant she’d spent her life learning to anticipate when emotional disturbance might erupt. Sehr was nothing like Rachel’s father, yet Rachel could see she was brimming with unresolved tension.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  She was surprised when Sehr took her aside, under the shelter of a beech tree, drawing her arm through Rachel’s. This companionable gesture was so stunning to Rachel that for a moment she lost track of her thoughts.

  Sehr sounded embarrassed as she asked, “What can you tell me about Alizah?”

  They both looked over at Khattak. Rachel wondered if he knew the warmth he sometimes conveyed—to both Amadou and Alizah. She did her best to explain it.

  “We stay connected to the families we meet through our cases—that’s part of our remit. But sometimes the families depend on us a little more than they should.” She shook her head. “I can’t say I blame them. We’re often their only source of comfort.”

  The sky was darkening around them, and as she listened to Rachel, Sehr hugged her arms to her body. There was no chill in the air—just the kind of electrical pulse that gave a forewarning of lightning. She was watching Esa’s dark head bent close to Alizah and Amadou, his attention fully focused on the girl.

  Sehr’s clear and direct gaze met Rachel’s.

  “So you’re saying what he gives her is comfort.”

  Choosing her words with care, Rachel answered, “I’d call it security. I think he makes her feel safe.”

  Sehr nodded, as if she was considering this. Whatever Alizah was saying to Khattak, it looked like it had developed into an argument. Her face was tense and angry. Her eyes flashed and her hands were balled into fists.

  “And is security all she wants?”

  Rachel hesitated. Sehr trusted her. She wanted to be worthy of that trust.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “What I do know is that Esa hasn’t thought of anyone but you.”

  52

  Rachel went over the case with Sehr. She needed a favor. And she knew Sehr’s skills as a prosecutor were too valuable for her to sit around cooling her heels while Khattak wrapped up his work. She didn’t want Sehr to leave. So she told her about the parts of the investigation where they had come up short and asked Sehr to do a little digging.

  “I’ve already asked Gaff to make room for you. Just try to stay under the radar, in case Lemaire objects. You might also want to check in with the profiler—Dr. Sandston—and get her to tell us what we’re looking for. We’re missing something here.”

  She described her conversation with Marlyse Sandston but left out the bit about the photographs. That was for Khattak to share. She’d kept the photographs on her person. She hadn’t had a chance to show them to Khattak, though she’d summarized her findings for him.

  Now she made her way over to the Lilies of Anjou. Alizah and Amadou had split apart from the others and were speaking to each other in low voices. Rachel had an uneasy feeling that they were talking about their radio show. She made a note to keep tabs on Alizah, who had always been unpredictable when it came to taking risks.

  Réjeanne was in deep discussion with Khattak, something cool and sardonic in her face as she looked Khattak over from head to toe. Rachel wondered what she was thinking, but she was distracted by Chloé tugging softly at her sleeve.

  Her heart smote her at the sight of Chloé’s drowning eyes, her nose and cheeks tinged red, a ball of tissues wadded in her hand.

  “Do you … do you know anything about the funeral?”

  In the press of events, Rachel had forgotten her promise about Youssef Soufiane. She apologized, promising to catch Chloé up as soon as she could. She took in the group dynamics with interest—Réjeanne confiding in Khattak, Alizah and Amadou in conference, Émilie Péladeau shifting her attention between Chloé’s conversation and Alizah’s. As soon as Émilie’s back was turned, Rachel drew Chloé aside.

  “There was something you wanted to tell me before. In the ambulance. Can you tell me what it was now?” She lowered her
voice. “You said Youssef wasn’t always good.”

  They still hadn’t publicly released the information about the markings on Youssef’s back. She stole another glance at Chloé’s tattoo. The drawings were disturbingly alike.

  Chloé cast an uncertain glance at Émilie, but Émilie was now wholly preoccupied by the sight of Amadou’s proximity to Alizah.

  “What I said to you earlier—well, I didn’t tell you the whole truth.” The rest of her face flushed as red as the tip of her nose. “Youssef and I wanted to be together. But he said he didn’t want to disrespect me. He had to get his family’s approval, and his family hated me. That’s why we were stuck, because he refused to go against his mother, but he also didn’t want to let me go.”

  She looked so young and helpless as she made the confession that Rachel couldn’t believe she’d had the strength and conviction to face down a large, disapproving family.

  “What was his mother’s actual objection?”

  Chloé made a self-deprecating gesture, dismissing herself with one hand. “Well…” Her childlike voice faltered. “There’s the obvious. I’m not like Alizah or any of the other girls at the mosque. I have this tattoo.” Her hands began to tear at the ball of tissue, scattering tiny fragments like snowflakes over a grave. “I wish I didn’t, but it’s too late to change it now. His mother said it was disgusting. She said I’d defiled myself. But the main reason is because I’m not Moroccan or Muslim. I come from a Catholic background, so I’m not what she wants for her son.” A little viciously, she added, “I bet his mother is wishing she’d let him be happy now.”

  But as soon as she said it, Chloé’s face crumpled. “That was an awful thing to say. She’s right; I am a terrible person.”

  No, Rachel thought. Chloé was a young girl who’d lost someone she loved in brutal circumstances. She could be forgiven for wanting someone to blame, someone who’d made it clear that Chloé didn’t measure up.

  “I know she doesn’t want me at the funeral, but she doesn’t have the right to stop me.” Now Chloé sounded tremulous and brave.

  “Why not?”

  Chloé’s fist rubbed against her heart as though the loss of Youssef was a physical ache. The tattoo flexed on her wrist.

  “Because. She’s not even his real mother.”

  * * *

  There was a park bench a few meters away. Despite the pressing threat of rain or the possibility of being interrupted by Émilie, who was keeping an eye on them, Rachel pulled Chloé over to the bench and signaled Khattak. She brought him up to speed, her heart thudding, and let him take over the questioning. Whether Chloé’s information was relevant or not, it was a lead they had to explore. Even if Chloé’s frankness created problems for her with her friends.

  “Can you tell us what you mean, Chloé? Who is Mrs. Soufiane if she’s not Youssef Soufiane’s mother?”

  Bowled over by Khattak’s attention, Chloé stuttered her answer. “St-stepmother. She’s his stepmother. Youssef’s father divorced his mother and later married again. I think Mrs. Soufiane hated me because Youssef’s mother gave me her blessing. But when Youssef told his family, th-that’s when things got ugly.”

  “Where is Youssef’s mother? Does she live here in Saint-Isidore?”

  Chloé’s eyes filmed over. Teardrops spattered her cheeks just as the rain came down. She shivered violently and Khattak suggested they retreat to the church.

  But Rachel had been watching Émilie’s approach. She forged ahead, despite the rain.

  “Tell us, Chloé. It could be important.”

  Chloé drew a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. “She does. I mean, she did.”

  “Did she move recently?”

  Chloé’s mouth gaped open like a helpless, floundering child. She stared at them wide-eyed, oblivious to the rain.

  “Shouldn’t you already know?”

  Her breath was the merest whisper.

  “Youssef’s mother was murdered in the basement of the mosque.”

  53

  “Why didn’t you tell us about Youssef Soufiane’s mother?”

  There was a note of accusation in Rachel’s voice. She didn’t care if Lemaire didn’t like it. He should have listened to Alizah from the beginning. Their phone lines were jammed with messages of hate, siphoning off resources they could ill afford to spare. He should have rooted the hate out at its source; instead, it had flourished to the point where it had emboldened mass murder. His negligence had slowed them down; otherwise they might have uncovered the necessary connections sooner.

  “Benoit can pull the victim IDs for you. You can go through them yourself. But what difference does it make? It stands to reason that there were families at the mosque. If Soufiane and his mother were there together, I wouldn’t call that a red flag.” Sounding aggrieved, he continued, “A father and son were killed together in the main prayer hall—how is that any different? The line you’re pursuing—this family discord about Chloé Villeneuve—wouldn’t it make more sense if, God forbid, Chloé had been the target?”

  Rachel was forced to back down. Lemaire had drawn conclusions that were so obvious that she should have thought of them first. She was itching to correct him, but she didn’t have any ammunition.

  In a surly tone, she said, “It just seems odd to me. Like it’s something we should pay attention to.”

  Lemaire gave a heavy sigh in response. She knew he didn’t have time to debate with her. He’d been hung out to dry by the press for doing too little or for doing all the wrong things. The politicians were marginally happier because now they had someone else to blame.

  Distracted by the sight of Khattak cornering Isabelle Clément, he gave Rachel what she wanted.

  “Focus on the Lilies. That may be the connection you’re looking for. Why did someone mark Soufiane with the Lilies of Anjou tattoo?”

  Rachel snorted, mouthing the words Hate crime at him. She knew he couldn’t disagree when his phone lines were jammed with supporters of the Wolf Allegiance. She watched him rub a hand through his unruly hair. But when he spoke, she could see, he wasn’t entirely convinced.

  “You shouldn’t rule out the possibility that the shooter came from within the Muslim community. You and your boss need to prepare yourselves for what that might mean. For the impact that would have.”

  Rachel stood her ground. “It makes no sense that the shooter would be a member of the mosque. You’re missing the pattern, sir. You’re missing the question you should be asking.”

  “Which is?”

  “What if these young men who consider themselves pure laine murdered twenty people in the name of the fleur-de-lis? What will that mean for Quebec?”

  The corners of his eyes pinched tight.

  Because he didn’t want to face the answer.

  54

  In Lemaire’s office, Isabelle Clément showed Esa a series of headlines. The prayer inside the church had already gained traction as an item of national news, fanned by the hyperbole that had bloomed from a single image.

  The reporter who’d been at the church with Thibault had sold his photograph to all the major outlets. He’d captured the confrontation between Max and Alizah at the church. In it, Alizah was holding Max’s face in her hands—they were linked by a visceral emotion.

  BEAUTY AND THE BEAST screamed one headline.

  BEAUTY FELLS THE BEAST was a slightly more creative take.

  The one he found most disturbing stated: NEO-NAZI KNEELS FOR LOVE.

  Thibault would be shamed by it in front of the other members of the Wolf Allegiance. He’d have to take some form of action to save face. His weakness made Alizah a target.

  He wondered if the French-language press had attempted more circumspection.

  Isabelle spared him a weary glance. “The respectable outlets have been careful. The rest are like a toss-up between Breitbart and InfoWars. The story for them is the desecration of the church by the Muslim prayer.” She must have felt the weight of Khattak’s silence, becau
se she clarified, “Their choice of words, not mine.”

  She tapped the monitor with a manicured fingernail, pointing to Alizah’s face.

  “They’ve found something to hinge their coverage on. Beautiful girls are news. Regardless of what they stand for. You’d better warn her about this.”

  He’d tried. And that was before he’d seen the coverage. But Alizah was as stubborn about her participation in this investigation as she’d been in Waverley. He’d told her she needed to fade into the background, to stay away from public gatherings. She’d coolly informed him that she’d promised to attend a vigil organized by the Lilies of Anjou. And that she’d be reporting on the vigil on her program the following morning.

  The Lilies’ vigil would be held at midnight in the woods, at a prearranged location known only to the young women. Outside of the Lilies, only Alizah and Amadou had been asked to attend.

  A detail she’d given him as a reassurance. When he’d asked her why she kept up her friendship with the Lilies given their links to Thibault, her response was considered. Like Alizah, the Lilies had been drawn in before they’d known any better. She refused to cast them aside on that basis, particularly given the sincerity of their feelings for Youssef and Amadou.

  When he’d told her angrily that she wasn’t making his job easier, she’d studied him and said in a careful voice, I’m a journalist, Esa. It’s not my job to give you cover.

  He’d felt the weight of her censure as plainly as if she’d screamed it. But she’d only looked at him quietly, something dark and nameless in her eyes.

  That she’d refused his advice was nothing new. He’d never been able to bend her to his will. Alizah’s commitment to her own course was something he admired—yet despaired of in equal measure.

  Realizing that Isabelle Clément was waiting for him to speak, he used Alizah’s turn of phrase. “You’ll need to provide some cover for our work. There are too many elements we’re unable to control. The Wolf Allegiance. Pascal Richard. Alizah and Amadou’s radio program.”