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  For Summer and Casim,

  my chandni and

  my chand ka tokra,

  I pass the torch into your hands.

  I learned that the Canadian government was going to take more refugees who couldn’t go to the United States, and they were coming here. I saw that and I … lost my mind. I don’t want us to become like Europe. I don’t want them to kill my parents, my family. I had to do something.… It was something that tortured me.

  —Alexandre Bissonnette, the shooter in the 2017 Québec mosque shooting

  I do not know why I committed such a senseless act.

  —Alexandre Bissonnette, Statement of Guilt, March 2018

  Prologue

  The watcher followed Esa Khattak home, observing the detective in the dark. For all his skills and aptitude, Khattak didn’t know. He’d never known that he was being followed because signs of pursuit had been cleverly disguised.

  There had been moments when the temptation to leave a calling card had been nearly too much to resist. The furtive delight to be gained from witnessing Khattak’s response. Of tasting his sudden panic at how close the threat had come.

  But the watcher’s patience was limitless. The moment to act would be soon. And when it came, it wouldn’t be decided by a note left at Khattak’s door. The endgame was playing out; the climax would be profound.

  Just outside the door to his house, Khattak answered his phone.

  He had seemed tired when he’d searched for his keys, but now his features softened, a smile curving his lips, as he set down his case at his side.

  It would be the woman, then. The woman Khattak had left in Greece, the one he’d since come to love. The woman was intriguing because she mattered to him. Tracking her travels abroad had posed a new kind of challenge, but Khattak was, by far, the more riveting of the pair.

  The watcher kept waiting for a misstep. For a sign that Khattak was someone other than he seemed. But his private face was not all that different from his public one, except where women were concerned.

  That was when the detective finally let down his guard, just as he was doing now, laughing with the woman on the other end of the phone.

  He was warm, expressive … perhaps even emotional.

  Words not often used to describe Inspector Khattak.

  But now there were next steps to be considered. Wait for Khattak to leave his house in the morning, or return to Greece to resume surveillance there? Or do neither of those things and head west to the home of Sergeant Rachel Getty, a woman of significance in Esa Khattak’s life.

  There were other possibilities, too. But these were the most compelling.

  The strike, when it came, would be hard.

  A moment of decision, now.

  The watcher rubbed a cold steel weight with careful, clever hands. Paused for the space of a breath.

  Then held it up to shoot.

  1

  Blood saturated the walls, the stink of it creeping into his nostrils. By any measure, the scene was sickening. It was more devastation at a single crime scene than Esa Khattak had ever witnessed. From the green tinge to Rachel’s skin, he could see it was the same for her. Their eyes met across the hall, sharing the moment of horror. They’d been called at once and had arrived as quickly as possible after the shooting, a mere matter of hours.

  Rachel was at the door canvasing the mosque’s parking lot. Khattak had been permitted access to the narrow cordon set up by crime scene technicians in the midst of the dead. He wore a protective forensic suit, Superintendent Martine Killiam at his side. He photographed the scene methodically, finding it easier to deal with the sight of bodies through the distancing mechanism of his lens. He made the count to himself. Two bodies in the corner had fallen back against the small shelf of books. Two more were slumped sideways in the main prayer space, where the green and white carpeting was soaked through. Another body was pitched against the mihrab, its white robe spattered with starbursts of blood. The delicately tiled niche had been damaged by a spray of bullets, its shards scattered over the carpet. A tiny turquoise flower lay inches from Khattak’s feet.

  He turned in the opposite direction, to the scene he’d put off photographing to the end. Two bodies close enough to touch and farthest from the door, one huddled inside the protective embrace of the other. A father and his small son. The assailant had targeted both.

  A small community, a small mosque, with seven dead in the prayer hall.

  And there was one more. Killed in the small passageway that led from the imam’s office to the main hall, this time by a single gunshot to the head, assailant and victim facing each other.

  The man who Khattak presumed had shot them was sitting on a chair at the far end of the hallway, a semi-automatic weapon cradled in his lap. It was an AR-15. He was surrounded by Sûreté officers who spoke to him in French, patient with his bewilderment.

  Khattak glanced at him once, a comprehensive glance. Long enough to see the small gold cross he wore on a chain at his neck. And to note the details of his clothing: A gray cardigan worn over a blue shirt. Black trousers and formal dress shoes, slightly scuffed at the toes. The man in the chair seemed slight and insignificant, his thin patch of hair compensated for by a full-grown beard, his eyes wide and dazed. His clothes, hands, and face were free of blood spatter, but his hands were locked around the weapon.

  A powerfully built man with an air of command was speaking to the man with the gun in a surprisingly gentle voice, his tone respectful and kind. Esa couldn’t make out his words, but after a few minutes the gun was released into the hands of the technicians. A moment later, the man in the chair was helped to his feet and escorted from the mosque through a side entrance.

  Khattak turned to Killiam. The heat inside the mosque was stifling, yet he found his hands were cold. He put away his phone.

  “No handcuffs?” he asked her, fighting the tremor in his voice.

  Killiam shook her head. She’d made her own inventory of the scene, her sharp gray eyes missing nothing. She was wearing her dress uniform, the stripes at her shoulders indicative of her rank, and after a minute the man in charge of the scene nodded at her in acknowledgment. She nodded back.

  Brusquely, she said to Khattak, “That’s Christian Lemaire, a homicide detective with the SQ—the Sûreté du Québec. The man with the rifle is Étienne Roy; he’s the priest at the local church. He holds a position of considerable influence. More than that, he is dear to the people of this town. They won’t insult the church by cuffing him. My guess is Inspector Lemaire won’t arrest him tonight.”

  Khattak glanced at her sharply. “He was found with the weapon in his hand.”

  “And what do you conclude from that?”

  Khattak took a moment to think it through. Killiam had requested the presence of Community Policing detectives on-site for a reason. She’d accompanied him personally and not only because she expected Esa to do damage control
in the small community that attended the mosque. Their relationship had progressed beyond that.

  “He didn’t look as though he’d ever held a gun in his hands. There’s no blood trail leading from the prayer hall, his shoes are clean—and where’s the gun?”

  “Inspector Lemaire’s team has confiscated it.”

  “I mean the gun used to kill the victim in the hallway. It wasn’t the AR-15. From the exit wound, I’d say it was a handgun. Has it been recovered from the scene?”

  Killiam looked at him approvingly. “No.”

  “So either there’s a second shooter or the priest was not involved.”

  A new team had gathered at the entrance to the mosque. Lemaire went over to speak to them. Killiam straightened her jacket, speaking to Khattak in an undertone.

  “Then why was the rifle in his hands?”

  “Maybe the priest came to the mosque in the aftermath of the shooting. Perhaps he tried to help some of the victims. Or it could be he wrestled the rifle away from the assailant.”

  Killiam was watching Lemaire, a faint frown settling between her eyebrows.

  “There’s no evidence he did anything of the kind. And if he was engaged in a scuffle, why wasn’t he shot?”

  Lemaire looked back over his shoulder, fixing them with a penetrating glance.

  Khattak didn’t have the answer.

  What he did have was questions raised by the way the priest had been dressed. He was about to raise this when Killiam swore under her breath. Khattak followed her line of sight, to Lemaire and his efforts to coordinate the various branches of police insisting on access to the scene. His voice cut cleanly across the clatter.

  But it wasn’t Lemaire who had drawn Killiam’s attention.

  In the flickering light cast by ambulances and police cars, a hastily constructed platform had been arranged. A coterie of reporters were gathered in a circle around a neatly dressed woman in her thirties. Other press huddles had begun to form as well demanding the attention of local officials.

  “We need to control how this shooting is covered from the outset.” Killiam sounded worried, a rare emotion for her.

  “Lemaire should get out there, then,” Khattak said.

  But when Killiam glanced back at him, her gray eyes frankly assessing, he understood at last why he and Rachel had been allowed access to the crime scene and, more important, why Community Policing had been called to assist at this shooting at a mosque in Québec.

  She was expecting him to manage the public response to the crisis—to give it the Community Policing Section’s sanction. And to fulfill the CPS mandate, which was to play a mediating role between minority communities and law enforcement where violent crime had occurred.

  But looking across at the gathering of reporters, he knew that nothing about the shooting would be easy to manage or suppress. Because one of his chief adversaries was speaking even now.

  2

  WOLF ALLEGIANCE CHAT ROOM

  [English-language page]

  SUBJECT: MOSQUE SHOOTING

  COMMENTS OPEN

  WHITEVICTORY: TOO MANY ATTACKS BY “REFUGEES” THE GOVERNMENT LETS IN WITHOUT EXTREME VETTING. WE’RE FIGHTING BACK AND IT’S ABOUT TIME!!!!

  NINEINCHNAILER: YEAH BUT I WANNA KNOW HOW THEY GOT THE AR-15.

  FRENCHKISSER: AN ASSAULT RIFLE?

  NINEINCHNAILER: JUST WHAT I HEARD SOMEWHERE.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: WE HAVE TO PROTECT OURSELVES.

  NOHA TEHERE: I THINK YOU MAY HAVE READ A DIFFERENT NEWS REPORT. THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE MOSQUE ARE THE ONES WHO NEED PROTECTION.

  WHITEVICTORY: FUCK OFF, ALIZAH.

  BROADSWORDBEN: I SECOND THAT.

  NOHA TEHERE: THOUGHT THIS WAS AN OPEN FORUM. NICE TO HEAR FROM YOU AGAIN, BEN, BY THE WAY.

  BROADSWORDBEN: SCREW THAT AND SCREW YOU. HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET AN AR-15? THEY’RE ILLEGAL AS FUCK.

  FRENCHKISSER: WHO CARES AS LONG AS THEY’RE USED TO FIGHT ISLAM.

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU MIGHT CARE WHEN THERE ARE KIDS WITH GUNS IN THIS TOWN. ESPECIALLY SINCE THE GUNS BRING GANGS.

  FRENCHKISSER: OTHER WAY AROUND. I’D RATHER HAVE GANGS THAN MOSLEMS. QUÉBEC IS GIVING YOU A MESSAGE. YOUR. NOT. WELCOME.

  NOHA TEHERE: *YOU’RE*

  NINEINCHNAILER: COPS HAVEN’T FIGURED OUT WHO DID IT, BUT THE FIRST THING YOU HERE IS “AREN’T WE ALL HUMAN?” AND “LOOK HOW PEACEFUL THEY ARE.”

  FLEURDELIS: DON’T KNOW HOW MANY THEY TOOK OUT BUT IT’S A START.

  NINEINCHNAILER: ALLAHU SNACKBAR!!!

  BROADSWORDBEN: ALLAH FUCKBAR!!!

  NOHA TEHERE: DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELVES? YOU’RE CHEERING ON MASS MURDER.

  GOODGUYWITHAGUN: I CAN’T READ FRENCH. WHO THE HELL IS THE SHOOTER? AN ARAB OR SOME ANGRY QUÉBÉCOIS WHO’S HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT?

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU SHOULD MAYBE CHANGE YOUR USER ID.

  GOODGUYWITHAGUN: MAYBE WHAT I SHOULD DO IS COME LOOKING FOR YOU.

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU’D HAVE TO LEAVE YOUR MOTHER’S BASEMENT FIRST.

  GOODGUYWITHAGUN: YOU TALK BIG BEHIND A SCREEN.

  NOHA TEHERE: ALSO ON THE RADIO AND IN REAL LIFE.

  GOODGUYWITHAGUN: GOOD TO KNOW WHERE I CAN FIND YOU.

  NOHA TEHERE: OVERCOMPENSATE MUCH?

  NINEINCHNAILER: I HEARD 4-5 MUSLIMS GOT SHOT.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: NOT ENOUGH.

  BROADSWORDBEN: IT’S NEVER ENOUGH, MAN. WE NEED A FUCKING CIVIL WAR. WE NEED TO EXTERMINATE THEM ALL.

  FLEURDELIS: WHAT WE NEED IS BETTER AIM. HE MISSED LIKE 10-15 OTHERS.

  NINEINCHNAILER: I SALUTE THE BROTHERS OF THE ALLEGIANCE WHO MADE THIS HAPPEN.

  NOHA TEHERE: THE WOLF ALLEGIANCE?

  BROADSWORDBEN: WHO ELSE HAS THE FUCKING BALLS?

  NOHA TEHERE: THANKS FOR CLARIFYING. NOW I CAN REPORT YOU FOR INCITEMENT.

  WHITEVICTORY: GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE.

  BROADSWORDBEN: GO DARK. EVERYONE GO DARK.

  NOHA TEHERE: TURN OFF YOUR LAPTOPS, YOU MEAN. DON’T FORGET TO CLEAR YOUR HISTORIES.

  BROADSWORDBEN: YOU’LL GET YOURS, BITCH.

  NOHA TEHERE: PEOPLE LIKE YOU ARE THE REASON FOR THE SHOOTING AT THE MOSQUE.

  BROADSWORDBEN: THANKS FOR GIVING ME THE CREDIT.

  NOHA TEHERE: THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING DARK.

  BROADSWORDBEN: WAIT UNTIL YOU FIGURE OUT JUST HOW DARK I AM.

  3

  Surrounded by the warmth of a sweltering summer night, Rachel Getty removed the jacket she’d thrown on when CPS had gotten the call. Though based in Toronto, Community Policing had national jurisdiction and had worked the Ontario townships in the past, but this was the first time they’d been summoned to Québec. The shooting at the mosque was a somber fit with their mandate.

  They’d immediately flown to Ottawa to meet with Superintendent Killiam, then driven the short distance across the Québec border to this small town on the fringes of Gatineau Park. In daylight, under the warm wash of sunlight, the town’s charm would have been apparent: Gabled houses and stone cottages jumbled together along narrow, cobblestoned streets. And at two opposite ends stationed on rolling green hills, the university and the church, the secular and sacred, each carving out a sphere of influence.

  But somewhere between these stalwarts of tradition, a small, bright mosque had taken root, modestly asserting its presence and offering a promise of belonging to its small congregation. It was a newly renovated building, and the architect had given the mosque a distinctly French character—Rachel couldn’t have said how, but she recognized it in the pattern of stone and the gallery of windows. Almost as an act of self-defense, the blue and white provincial flag of Québec flew from a staff in the parking lot. There was no accompanying Canadian flag, and no display of a crescent or a star. No exterior arches, no dome or minaret. A uniquely Québécois mosque? Or the sign of a community in hiding?

  With the pavement bathed in the glow of police lights, and the yellow tape cordoning off the scene from onlookers who were arriving in increasing numbers, the town became like any other in Rachel’s experie
nce, its individuality flattened by the banality of procedure. She was no longer seeing shopfronts and cafés; she was checking lines of sight, modes of egress, suspicious faces in the crowd hovering too close to the cordon.

  Her attention was caught by a woman motioning to a group of reporters. The woman brushed back her hair, straightened the lapels of her stylish coat, and readied herself to speak. She’d checked with Khattak, who’d told her that the woman who’d set up the press conference was Diana Shehadeh. She was the head of a civil liberties association, renamed and reconstituted after a smear campaign against an earlier iteration of the same group had rendered it defunct. The new organization she fronted would be busier than ever, now.

  Before Shehadeh could speak, a giant of a man cut his way through the crowd and waved the reporters off. She recognized him as Inspector Christian Lemaire.

  “We’ll have news for you soon, but this isn’t the moment, and this woman, whoever she is, is not authorized to give you information about a local crime scene.”

  A babble of voices erupted. Lemaire fixed them with an icy blue glare until they subsided, retreating to their vehicles to make contact with their desks. There was no story yet. But they knew there would be soon.

  Khattak and Killiam cut across the parking lot, not to join the man who’d shut down the press conference, but to join the woman who was making a fuss over being silenced. Rachel continued to snap photographs of onlookers, of faces in the parking lot, of movement in and out of the mosque, trying to make herself useful until Khattak called her to his side. Technically, she was his junior at Community Policing, yet they most often worked collaboratively as partners.

  An urgent conference was taking place between Khattak and the others. Rachel was so intent on it that she was taken by surprise when the tall man stalked over to her and grabbed her phone from her hand.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Instantly antagonized by the kind of manner she detested, Rachel glared back at him coldly. Though his six-foot-plus frame was packed with muscle and his bright blue eyes were hostile, Lemaire didn’t intimidate her. Far from it. She’d honed her skills as an officer facing down men like Lemaire. Men like her father, Don Getty.