A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Clément didn’t smile at either of them, and her response to Khattak wasn’t what Rachel had learned to expect. Clément glanced at him, her attention briefly caught by the shadow of Khattak’s dark beard; then her attention returned to the tablet she held in her hands. She seemed competent but worried.

  “I’ve spoken to Inspector Lemaire. We’ve outlined the statement the premier is prepared to make.”

  Rachel shifted away from the wall. One of her strengths as Khattak’s partner was to anticipate the questions he’d want to ask but make them seem like her own.

  “Will you be naming Roy? Or Amadou Duchon?”

  Clément gave a short, sharp shake of her head, her fingers sliding across the surface of the tablet. She pulled up a document on her screen.

  “All the premier will be doing at this point is expressing condolences to the people of Saint-Isidore.”

  “Not to the congregation of the mosque, specifically?”

  Clément looked up, giving Rachel her full attention. “Not yet. We need more time to work out precisely what to say. And it would help if we had all the facts at hand. The quicker you can deliver those, the clearer our statement will be.”

  Rachel noted the “our.” A deliberate expression of the woman’s political clout, letting them know her hands were on the reins. But as press liaison, she might be overstepping her role on the premier’s team. From the curl of Lemaire’s lip, it was possible he thought so, too. He winked at Rachel out of Clément’s line of sight. She firmed her lips repressively, ignoring Lemaire’s quick smile.

  Khattak spoke up. “The premier is waiting to see if a member of the mosque community is responsible for the attack before extending his condolences.”

  The quietly delivered statement conveyed his anger nonetheless.

  Clément put her tablet away. Her eyes flicked from Lemaire to Rachel to Khattak.

  “When was the last time you visited Québec?” she asked him.

  “I’m aware of the news,” Khattak said. “It’s necessary in my position.”

  “Whatever you’ve been following, if you haven’t been here, you have no way of understanding the nature of our concerns. Not only does the premier have to manage Anglo-Francophone tensions; there’s also the recurring problem of immigration. Any statement he makes must consider these angles.”

  Khattak’s voice became even quieter.

  “I didn’t realize the premier considered immigration a problem. Or is it only a certain type of immigration?”

  Rachel tried to make her face blank and failed. Khattak was never antagonistic; he rarely stated his positions in advance. Whatever mask he wore in order to do his job, he’d chosen to discard it now, yet perversely, his frankness seemed to reassure Clément. Perhaps she had been wondering how careful she needed to be about offending Khattak’s sensibilities.

  “Then you understand a little better than I thought.” She didn’t sigh. She was too chic and self-possessed for that. “But whatever you’re thinking about this…”

  Me, Rachel substituted for “this,” a little world weary at the way it always came down to this. Women exerted themselves to make an impression on Khattak, whose dark good looks had derailed many a witness’ powers of concentration. But Clément was a professional and, apart from that sidelong look at Khattak’s smooth, dark beard, she had gathered herself quickly.

  Her tone became oddly persuasive. “Superintendent Killiam assigned you here at the premier’s request. Not to cover things up. Rather, to expose them.”

  “Why?” Rachel demanded. “What the hell’s been happening here? No offense, but Saint-Isidore-du-Lac strikes me as somewhat of a backwater.”

  This was a harsh indictment given its proximity to Ottawa, the nation’s capital, and its picturesque setting on the fringes of Gatineau.

  Clément’s smile was coolly ironic. “Maybe it is, Sergeant.” She pressed the back of her neck with a delicate hand, and the loop of gold at her nape unwound, falling in disciplined waves. “But I think you may be unaware of the undercurrents this backwater has produced.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “The Codes of Conduct. Saint-Isidore-du-Lac was the second town to pass a Code, modeled on the one from Hérouxville. It banned certain … cultural … practices that were unwanted here.”

  Khattak’s eyes slid to Rachel. The shooting at the mosque might be a hate crime, it might be a terrorist attack, but whatever else it was, it had just exposed an expanding rift in Québec.

  “Why was a Code of Conduct necessary?” he asked. “Does the town view the community of congregants here as a threat?”

  Clément avoided a direct answer. “The Code is about Québécois identity—it’s meant to protect the values that Québécois hold dear.”

  Her eyes drifted drown the hospital corridor, and her smooth self-possession wavered. Nodding at the families of the victims of the shooting, she said, “These are not the values I mean.”

  Khattak didn’t respond to this, but Rachel knew they were thinking the same thing.

  The cultural fault lines in Québec had expanded from Codes of Conduct to encompass provincial hearings and then to the attempt to pass a Charter of Values for Québec. The 2013 legislation had mandated the uncovering of one’s face when providing or receiving state services. It had also prohibited public-sector employees from wearing conspicuous religious symbols. Though Catholic symbols were considered a reflection of Québec’s heritage, all others were banned. As a result, the new law had been roundly condemned on the grounds of freedom of religion. Yet though the Charter of Values failed to pass, iterations of it, such as Bill 62, had been revived and remained contentious.

  But were they contentious enough to have been behind the shooting at the mosque?

  9

  One of Lemaire’s officers called him away. Rachel caught the name Roy before the conversation was cut off. Lemaire gave her a look she couldn’t read—assessing? Suspicious? Strangely calm?

  “I’ll be back, eh? Very soon.”

  It sounded like an apology, but Rachel couldn’t think why this blue-eyed bear of a man would figure he owed her one. He was a homicide cop with the Sûreté. And God knew what Rachel was, a question she’d been asking herself since she and Khattak had returned from working a case in Greece. She’d needed time to reflect on her experiences during that case, where she’d ended a personal relationship that had never had the chance to blossom. She’d taken a break from her usual activities to take that time for herself—she hadn’t hit the ice to play hockey in six weeks.

  This new case was a good distraction. She might hate herself for thinking of a tragedy as a diversion, but she was honest enough to face the truth of her thoughts head on. She was trying to do what Khattak did, by insulating her thoughts.

  She found herself speaking to Lemaire with some attempt at collegiality.

  “We’ll be speaking to Alizah Siddiqui. Just call us when you’re done.”

  He paused at that, making a quick survey of the activity at the reception desk. Alizah wasn’t alone. A group of young women stood close to her, but they weren’t interacting with Alizah. The palest and youngest of the three was trying to get a nurse’s attention.

  Alizah squeezed the girl’s arm. “I’ll find out,” she said crisply.

  She caught up to Rachel’s group. “Inspector Lemaire, what’s the update on Youssef Soufiane? Chloé really needs to know.” She gestured at the girl who was waiting at the desk.

  Lemaire’s dismissal wasn’t unkind. It was resigned, as though he’d dealt with Alizah’s persistence many times in the past. It made Rachel curious. How well did Alizah know the detective from the Sûreté?

  “I’m sorry. That information is restricted to family.”

  Khattak pulled Lemaire aside to ask a question, while Alizah returned to speak to the young woman she’d called Chloé. When Khattak was free, Alizah joined them at the elevator.

  “We need to talk,” she told them. “I need to show you something im
portant—something that’s connected to what happened here tonight. I don’t think it can wait.”

  “How long have you been in Saint-Isidore?” Khattak asked.

  “A few years now.” She explained that though she was registered at the university, she lived off campus in an apartment she shared, working year round in town. She knew the campus and community well.

  “Let me show you the campus; then I’ll tell you the rest.”

  At her urging, they left their car in the parking lot, skirting the group of reporters. A handful of streetlights illuminated the dark road, trailing away from the hospital up a hill. Alizah was leading them to the university perched at the top, its columns floating like sentinels against a midnight sky. Campus lights illuminated the grounds, thickly forested with maples, whose green leaves darkened to inky blackness as the night encroached. They crossed a bridge over a narrow creek that wound its way along the outskirts of the town.

  For a moment, that sickening sense of nostalgia flared up in Rachel’s thoughts. She was back at a pier looking out over White Pine Lake. A white gazebo stood on the opposite shore, and the space between Rachel and the shore was engulfed by sorrow and loss.

  Miraj.

  They hadn’t been able to save Miraj, and she’d never expected to meet Alizah Siddiqui again.

  She chanced a glance at Khattak and saw the same somber expression on his face. They should have returned to the mosque or, failing that, insisted on being present at Lemaire’s interview of Étienne Roy—but Alizah’s urgency about what she knew was compelling.

  Rachel was quiet. The bridge gave her an excellent vantage point to view the layout of the town. She measured the distance from the university to the hospital, from the university to the mosque, from the mosque to the dignified church. The importance of the Catholic church had diminished over the decades—many in Québec now viewed it with open distrust. But that was not what Rachel had witnessed in the Sûreté officers’ handling of Père Étienne. No, there had been a respect there that bordered on reverence.

  Looking southward from the bridge, beyond the perimeter of the mosque, the streets of Saint-Isidore were empty save for patrol cars sweeping the dark with their lights. Isabelle Clément, the press liaison, must have made her statement by now, to keep the curious away. There might be a shooter at large. Nowhere was truly safe yet—which was why Rachel kept scanning the streets, watchful for signs of movement.

  Lemaire hadn’t seen fit to hold his own press conference yet, and she admitted that that was probably the right call. It was too soon to say anything that wouldn’t raise more questions, so he was right to have his mind on the investigation. Catching the shooter was their top priority.

  Rachel listened to Khattak’s questions as they resumed walking, probing into why Alizah had chosen to come to Saint-Isidore and set down roots. There had always been a certain sympathy between Alizah and Khattak.

  “Waverley became too small. After everything that happened to Miraj—the people who were involved. I couldn’t look at them in the same way, and I wanted to talk about that.”

  Rachel was confused. “You wanted to talk about your sister’s murder?”

  “I wanted to talk about what happened in Waverley. Where fingers were pointed. Why they were pointed. I’ve never been able to forget. Since then, it’s all become so much worse.”

  When she dipped her head low, shielding her face, Rachel was reminded of the girl she’d met in Waverley. Angry that no one apart from herself was willing to tell the truth.

  From the beginning, the local police had dubbed Miraj Siddiqui’s murder an honor killing. And that perception had colored everything about Miraj’s life, as well as her unnatural death.

  “Is that the reason you chose to study away from home?” Khattak asked.

  Again, he perceived nuances that Rachel couldn’t detect. When Alizah stopped to look at him, a sense of connection thrummed between them.

  “It’s Québec,” she said simply. “And Saint-Isidore was quick to adopt a Code of Conduct. An important place for someone who’s interested in politics and journalism. Because more than anything, this town is an emblem of what that code might become. What it did become,” she finished bitterly. “But you’ll see that for yourselves in a moment.”

  Khattak glanced down at Alizah’s left hand.

  “You didn’t get engaged?” It was a question that arose from their history in Waverley.

  Alizah pushed her thick, dark hair over one shoulder.

  “He wasn’t ready. So I decided not to wait around.” She shrugged, her glance encompassing Rachel. “If someone doesn’t know your worth, why stand still, waiting for things to change?”

  Rachel stumbled as the bridge met the cycling path. Khattak’s hand was swiftly at her elbow. They avoided looking at each other. Alizah’s matter-of-fact statement applied to them equally. Khattak had wasted years pushing away a woman he’d finally admitted he loved. And Rachel knew no matter how long she was willing to wait for a man she admired, the outcome wasn’t going to be the one she’d foolishly hoped for.

  This had always been Alizah’s most disconcerting trait—speaking plainly without apology. Willing to face the worst. And now, as then, Rachel wondered how a girl so much younger than she possessed such resolute courage when it came to facing her pain.

  The answer lay in the reason she gave them for studying in Saint-Isidore. She had been accepted into a graduate program in journalism, after having taken time off to acquire relevant work experience. Now she was following the trail blazed by her sister Miraj.

  They’d reached the top of the hill and looked back at the town spread below, shrouded in darkness except for the lights of police cars that marked off the scene at the mosque.

  “You’re saying they’re connected?” Rachel asked.

  Alizah led them around the side of the main admissions building, which struck Rachel as quite similar to the church, with its gray stone pediments and ogival windows. These were paired up at the front and arranged as trios along the eastern façade. The building’s fenestration was modest, but its central portal could have graced Trinity College. A police car flagged them down, pulling up on the drive under the building’s portico. Rachel held up her ID and asked if there was any news. The driver shook his head and circled back to the exit.

  To the west side of the main college was a student center, fashioned in a more modern style with sleekly positioned Greek columns. The windows were crosshatched with sparkling panes, their bright and angular symmetry marred by a set of broken panes at the end of the row.

  Alizah unlocked a door at the back and flipped on the lights. They were standing in the middle of a corridor lined with mahogany doors. Each of the doors was papered with flyers. A nameplate beside each door denoted the presence of various student clubs.

  The door Alizah had unlocked was marked off with two rows of orange duct tape establishing an amateur cordon. Rachel instantly knew why. The nameplate on the door indicated that the space had been allocated to the university’s Muslim Students Association or MSA. The door itself had been defaced by a giant swastika. On either side of the frame, a series of graphics had been taped to the wall, each depicting an explicitly racist, fully bilingual cartoon. The orange tape formed a boundary around these graphics, and the door itself was taped across.

  “This break-in happened two days ago.” She explained her role as an active member of the MSA, closely connected to other Muslim students and to the Muslim community in town. She knew the congregation at the mosque, and she would personally know many of the families who were impacted by the tragedy. “They trashed our office, stole our electronics, and did this to the door. I taped it off because although we asked campus security to notify local police, no one has been here yet. I wore gloves.” She said this a little shyly to Khattak. “I didn’t touch anything. I’ve photographed this with my friend Amadou’s camera and with my phone. Two sets stored in different places. I’ve also kept a record of my correspondence
with the administration. And of the calls I made to Inspector Lemaire.”

  “Wait. You’ve met Lemaire before? Doesn’t he work homicide in Montreal?”

  Alizah fished a small, square wallet from the back pocket of the jeans she wore tucked into slim black boots. She removed a card from the wallet and passed it to Rachel. It was Lemaire’s business card; Rachel handed it to Khattak.

  “He’s been trying to do the same kind of work you do. Every time there’s an incident, he rotates through and speaks to the community, assuring them that no problem is too small for us to bring to his attention. He said he’s made note of what’s been happening in Saint-Isidore.”

  Khattak was studying one of the graphics on the door. It pictured a bearded man in a turban being chased down a street by a long row of marchers wearing hoods that resembled bishops’ miters. But something about the way the hoods were drawn could also have represented the Ku Klux Klan. Except that the faces were unmasked. The same hoods appeared on the graphic next to it, this time worn by a group of men kicking a woman in a burqa who was curled up in a ball on the ground. The manner of drawing suggested that both the woman and the turbaned man were the threat. The viewer’s sympathy was meant to be engaged by the faces under the hoods.

  Saving YOU, both graphics read in French and English.

  “These men are here,” Khattak said flatly. “Whoever they are, they’re real. That’s why Saint-Isidore is firmly on Lemaire’s radar. That’s why he keeps coming back.”

  Alizah pointed to another one of the graphics, higher up on the door. A single handsome figure dressed in one of the hoods had raised his hands in prayer just above a motto at the bottom of the cartoon. The same motto was inked across a sash the young man wore on his chest.

  Alizah nodded grimly. “We’ve been dealing with this for a while. And not with much success.”

  Rachel strained to read the tiny printing on the sash. An electric jolt shot up her spine.

  The men in the hoods were called the Wolf Allegiance.