A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  He noted down the names of Richard’s prospective alibi witnesses. But when Richard went on to specify time and location, it left a window open. Not only for André, but also for Richard himself. And he wondered if the man realized that. In a crowded bar, it would have been easy to slip away and return later. Or simply to have gone on home, as Richard admitted to doing himself. He made a mental note to ask Lemaire to follow up on the activities of both men.

  “Now if someone like you had been there, I might have found it worth my while to stick around.”

  When Khattak ignored this, Richard challenged him directly.

  “Are you a homophobe?”

  It was Khattak’s turn to offer a smile of some charm. “Not at all.”

  “Well, I’m not an Islamophobe.” Richard said this with manifest aggression.

  “Your program suggests otherwise.”

  “Can you specify a particular program?”

  Khattak’s phone signaled the arrival of a text message. He ignored it for the moment.

  “What about this morning’s? I understand that you invited your callers to share their theories about who was behind the shooting.”

  “So?”

  “Monsieur Richard.” Khattak’s voice deepened with a note of warning. “You focused on Amadou Duchon.”

  Richard rose to his feet in a sudden motion. He ambled over to his vanity wall, stopping before a photograph of a ceremony. In it, he was being handed the key to the city by the mayor of Saint-Isidore.

  “Not me,” he clarified. “The police did. Your colleagues, I believe. I just ran with it.”

  Khattak rose, too.

  “Are you not at all concerned about inciting violence against a young man who bravely ran to the scene to offer his aid to the wounded? Or were you unaware of that?”

  Richard turned from the wall, and Khattak noticed that the collar of his shirt was drawn up unusually high at the back, a slight misstep in an otherwise polished appearance.

  “I thought he was in police custody.”

  “Did you?” Khattak pointedly fell silent, pushing the door to Richard’s office ajar. The sound of a radio broadcast filled the hallway—it wasn’t Richard’s station. It was Amadou’s rich voice in the midst of an interview with Diana Shehadeh. “You’re paying attention to campus radio. An unlikely rival for a man in your position. Which suggests that you thoroughly understand the dubious achievements of your program. Some would call it incitement.”

  Richard’s eyes flicked over Khattak again, making a personal calculation.

  “Would you?” he asked.

  “That depends. I’d like to borrow your recordings so I can make that determination for myself.”

  For a moment, he thought Richard would refuse. Instead, the other man shrugged.

  “You’re welcome to them. I’ve no doubt that Amadou and his feisty counterpart have your ear—but you won’t find evidence of incitement on my show. And even if you do, incitement isn’t a crime.”

  Some types of incitement were, Khattak thought. He studied the photograph that had drawn Richard’s interest. He recognized several faces in it, including those of Christian Lemaire and Isabelle Clément. His mind drew connections that left him shaken. The three figures in the photograph represented law enforcement, politics, and the press—and they had deemed Pascal Richard’s program worthy of honoring with the key to Saint-Isidore.

  He was reminded of something Alizah had once written him, something she had adopted as her motto.

  The battle is everywhere, all the time.

  “You have a platform,” he told Richard quietly. “Some would say that it confers a moral responsibility.”

  Richard shrugged this off. “I’m not the voice of public morality. Ratings. Dollars. Entertainment. That’s the business I’m in.”

  Grimly, Khattak said, “There’s a direct connection between your business and what happened at the mosque last night.”

  Richard took offense at the words.

  “That’s a pretty big leap. There’s a difference between letting people air their grievances on my show and some lunatic setting out to gun down innocent people.”

  Khattak knew different.

  “I’m afraid it’s not as great of a leap as you think.”

  * * *

  He clarified certain details about the nature of Richard’s program. Richard made arrangements for André to deliver the recordings to police headquarters with the air of a man who had nothing to hide and less still to apologize for.

  Unconvinced, Khattak thanked him for his time. But at the door Richard detained him by voicing another question, his tone clipped, the words hesitant. Esa looked up from his phone. He hadn’t had a chance to read through his messages yet.

  “Would you like to get a drink with me tonight? It doesn’t have to be alcohol.”

  Without a trace of discomfort, Esa declined the request. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate.”

  Richard moved closer, his eyes on Khattak’s face.

  “Because of your investigation?”

  Khattak nodded. “That. And the fact that I’m hoping to be married soon.”

  * * *

  He checked his messages on his way to the car. An update from Rachel on which of the tasks he’d assigned that she’d been able to accomplish. And some cryptic muttering about Lemaire taking her to check out Père Étienne’s church, which for the moment he ignored.

  There was another message waiting for him through a new delivery service. He clicked it open as he stepped into the sunlight. He looked back at the building to find Richard watching him through the window.

  He was struck by a pang of menace. It wasn’t because of Richard.

  It was as a result of the message waiting for him on his phone.

  Richard doesn’t want you nearly as much as I do.

  This time Esa remembered to take a screenshot.

  27

  PASCAL RICHARD SATELLITE RADIO SHOW

  [Translated from the French]

  RICHARD: So you guys hear about this group of Goth girls here in Saint-Isidore? First I thought they were Allegiance groupies. Turns out, no. No wolf heads for them, just delicate little pansy lilies on the insides of their wrists. That’s how you spot these bad girls. They call themselves Lilies of Anjou. Posers or not, you decide.

  One of them is pretty sweet—let’s call her Ém. So this Ém chick is all hot and bothered about some biracial newcomer. He doesn’t look biracial, mind you. He’s blacker than the inside of a coal mine, but she doesn’t care, she’s after him, day and night. The fact that he’s at the scene of the shooting, he’s arrested—none of that puts her off. What can I tell you? Some girls like to roll in the mud. Now let me tell you the good part. This dude—this black-as-night hombre from the gateway to hell—he doesn’t want her. He’s not assimilating, my friends. He doesn’t speak French. He speaks some shit-for-brains patois, whatever passes for la langue française in that Senegalese backwater he’s from. So why is that a problem? I think you know the answer to that.

  These people, the ones who won’t let a woman show her face, they don’t want to be Québécois. Because they think they’re goddamn superior. We’re the cockroaches, my friends. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

  Okay, Marie—who do we have on the line?

  MARIE: We have Paul on the line.

  PAUL: I’ve seen the way the Lilies go after those guys. Those guys will fuck them, no problem, but then they go home to Maman for a sweet little virgin.

  RICHARD: [laughs] Sounds like you could use a sweet little virgin yourself.

  PAUL: [laughs] Va chier, Pascal. Fuck you. [pause] Yeah, probably. But they’re throwing themselves at these guys. They should be wearing burqas.

  RICHARD: You’ll get no argument from me. You part of the Allegiance?

  PAUL: [pause] Better if I don’t say.

  RICHARD: I wouldn’t worry, man. They get some excellent pussy.

  PAUL: Fuckin’ A.

  R
ICHARD: Wait, man. Help me out here. You said “guys,” plural. It’s not just Ém and the black guy? Who else is getting their panties in a wad?

  PAUL: [laughs] That little dopey chick. She’s pretty in a crack-addict way.

  RICHARD: I love me some heroin chic.

  PAUL: [laughs] Exactly, dude. But I’m guessing she’s out of luck now. One of them’s out of circulation.

  RICHARD: You talking about that kid in the hospital—Youssef Soufiane? That’s cold, dude.

  PAUL: I’m just saying what you’re saying. We’re the cockroaches, man.

  RICHARD: You wanna drive them out, you better be there to put pressure on the mayor. You better have rung the phone off the damn hook on the Code of Conduct.

  PAUL: Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered. [HANGS UP]

  RICHARD: Marie, I gotta say that kid was lit. Who’s gonna compete with that?

  MARIE: How about someone who thinks you’re shit? We have Réj on the line.

  RÉJ: You know who’s a shit-for-brains, Richard? You. You’re like primordial sludge that never crawled out of the sea.

  RICHARD: What’s the matter, babe? You’ve got no arguments so you resort to—what do you libtards call it—ad hominem attacks?

  RÉJ: You’re a sexist, misogynist, racist piece of shit. You’re inciting violence by demonizing our neighbors. You would have fit right in, in Nazi Germany.

  RICHARD: Ooooh. Fancy college girl with college words. You go to the Université Marchand? [pause] Hey, I know who you are. You’re the ugly Lily. You’re the dyke, Réjeanne Beaudoin. [silence] You still there, bitch? Sorry, I meant “butch.”

  RÉJ: Did you just out me on your program, you homophobic fuck?

  RICHARD: I thought you libtards were all about owning who you are. All that gender-fluid, nonconforming crap. [growls in throat] Girrrrrrrl power. But be honest. Are you a girl, or are you one of those freaks in between?

  RÉJ: You would know. Heard you hit on Khattak. You know who he is, right? The Muslim cop they sent to clean up your mess.

  RICHARD: Is that your fantasy, freak? Or do you have a crush on someone at Al-Salaam like both of your horny friends?

  RÉJ: You’re a walking Charter violation. And you’re a fucking awful Québécois.

  RICHARD: [chuckling] Walking Charter violation, that’s a good one. But freedom of speech, babe, freedom of speech. Or don’t they teach you that at the School of Libtards?

  RÉJ: They teach us to recognize Nazis. You’re a danger to everything we stand for.

  [Call terminated.]

  RICHARD: That was a live one, friends. Sounds like our friend Réjeanne needs a good old-fashioned screw to loosen up everything that’s tight. I know she’s a dyke, but let’s hope our brothers in the Allegiance are willing to take one for the team.

  28

  With Khattak busy at Richard’s studio, Rachel accompanied Lemaire to Père Étienne’s church for a preliminary search. The old stone church had been built in the late 1800s. It was too circumspect and discreet to be considered a cathedral, built on a smaller plan without the requisite connecting galleries or stone buttresses. Its rose-gold stone was wrapped in curling tendrils of ivy and warmed by bright swathes of sunlight. The garden was overgrown with tiger lilies that swayed in the breeze under a surfeit of hedges. It was poised at the summit of a modest hill, and something about its character suggested a place of sanctuary. Of homecoming.

  Rachel had stopped attending church the third year after her brother, Zach, had run away. Her parish priest had had nothing to offer her by way of hope except the empty promises of a distant saving grace. The priest’s bond with Rachel’s father had been too strong for him to question why Zach had run away or to ask what there might have been in the home to drive a teenage boy away. His charity didn’t extend to Rachel; he’d made her feel as though her concerns were a nuisance and that she would be better off submitting to her father’s authority.

  But Père Étienne’s church was nothing like that cold space that had seemed to condemn Rachel’s sorrow, mocking her despair with the lonely silence of judgment. Someone was playing the organ with a light hand, the music evoking the dance of spring … budding life … intemperate joy. The worn oak benches gleamed gold in the chapel light, the end of each pew dressed charmingly with wildflowers. At the altar someone had potted pink and gold chrysanthemums in a pale blue jug. There were no calla lilies, and none of the flowers were white. The jewel-toned rose window threw arrows of blue and green light over the altar and down across the transept.

  The entire scene was resonant with hope.

  “It is a beautiful church,” Christian Lemaire said, observing Rachel’s reactions. “You are Catholic?”

  “I think so,” Rachel said cautiously.

  “You don’t know?” There was warmth in the blue eyes that regarded her, but Rachel didn’t think Lemaire was mocking her.

  She had climbed the three stairs to the chancel, and now she placed both hands on Père Étienne’s lectern to give herself time to answer.

  “Whether it’s a mosque, a church, or a synagogue, I don’t see God stepping in to help. Look at last night’s shooting.”

  She was standing in a spot where the rose window cast a shaft of orange-gold light over her hair; the wisps of hair at her neck spiraled out in fiery trails. When she noticed Lemaire staring at her, she quickly stepped out of the light. He turned away, gesturing at the organ loft above the chancel, where the church’s pipe organ was fixed in glorious display. They couldn’t see the organist from where they stood, but the music continued without a break, swelling up into the grand emptiness of the nave.

  “We should cover every inch of this place,” he said.

  Rachel was dubious. Though the church was modestly built, it suggested any number of places to hide a weapon, and that was excluding the garden. She moved away from the lectern.

  “Would you mind beginning with our local musician?” Lemaire asked.

  “Any particular reason why?”

  Lemaire came closer, looking down at her from his great height. Did he resent being challenged? Or did he just not like explaining himself? She hadn’t gotten that vibe from the way he’d singled Benoit out for praise among a group of more experienced colleagues. She faced him squarely, waiting.

  “The musician is a young woman. She might relate better to you.”

  Rachel had no idea what prompted her to challenge Lemaire. She should have asked him how he knew the organist. Instead, she offered, “You don’t think you have what it takes?”

  Her words were rude and uncalled for, but Rachel was more appalled to hear the note of flirtation in her voice. A scalding blush climbed to the roots of her hair. From the hint of devilment in Lemaire’s eyes, he was thoroughly enjoying her embarrassment.

  He didn’t lean in to crowd her. He just waited an appreciable moment before he said, “You tell me.”

  The heat blazing through Rachel became an inferno. She could feel herself perspiring under her navy-blue shirt. She struggled to regain her composure, blinking several times rapidly and running a dry tongue over her lips.

  “Christ, sir, I’m sorry. That was completely out of line.”

  Lemaire’s pleasant laugh sounded in the nave.

  “Rachel.” He shook his head, still enjoying her discomfiture, but not in a manner that amplified her humiliation. He was sharing the humor of the moment with her. “You don’t need to call me sir. I’m not your boss. I’m your temporary partner. A colleague, maybe a friend. If you can’t bring yourself to call me Lemaire, perhaps you might try ‘Christian.’ You don’t mind if I call you Rachel?”

  He moved a short distance away, finding a small door that Rachel had missed and turning its iron knob.

  Rachel took a few calming breaths. He’d put the control back in her hands, not pressuring, not insisting, just suggesting another way of looking at things … at him. He’d said nothing out of line in return, merely teasing her a little, the way that Khattak sometimes did. Exce
pt her reaction to Lemaire was nothing like her response to Khattak—whom she’d come to think of as the truest friend she’d ever had. With Lemaire there was something more. A hint of excitement … and if she didn’t ruthlessly squash it down … a growing sense of attraction.

  Realizing she’d been silent too long, she nodded.

  “Yes. You can call me Rachel.”

  She slipped under his arm to open the door.

  It led to a narrow staircase that would take her up to the organ loft. She was unsettled by the thought that Lemaire might be watching her climb and wondering why he’d preferred to search the nave and transept himself. He couldn’t be covering for Père Étienne or he wouldn’t have suggested the search to begin with. She should feel flattered that he’d asked her to partner him. Instead, she felt somewhat cautious—was he keeping an eye on what she and Khattak were up to? Or was this a means of ensuring that Khattak was out there on his own? She couldn’t say the INSET team was hostile to their presence, but no one had laid out the welcome mat, either. Except for Christian Lemaire.

  Rachel shook her head at herself. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Maybe she should cut him a little slack. At the top of the stairs, she peered over the railing to watch him search. He’d begun at the last pew and was thorough in his methods … checking every hymnal, each footrest, the spaces beneath the loosely cushioned benches, the collection boxes stacked at the outer end of each row. So he wasn’t faking it—he was really looking for the gun, despite his treatment of the priest.

  She was beginning to think she understood it, connecting it to her own experience at her parents’ Catholic church. Their priest had wielded influence, even amidst that small congregation. In a place like Saint-Isidore, where the institutions of power seemed inextricably linked, the relationship with Père Étienne might be one that it was necessary to preserve.