Just a few minutes earlier, as she was approaching the park, she’d heard what sounded like gunfire. It hadn’t been very loud, though, and there had been so much of it that she’d dismissed it as something else. Kids with firecrackers or something. But the park was designed to suppress the sound of the highway it was built over. Could the design suppress the sound of gunshots, too?
She realized she was afraid to go in. And that decided it for her. She turned, marched up the stairs, and walked into the park.
She saw it all immediately. Bodies. Several of them.
She froze, her heart suddenly hammering so hard it seemed she could hear it. “Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her voice sounded unnaturally high, and she realized her throat had constricted. Still, it was a comfort to hear herself saying something, anything.
She jerked her head right, afraid whoever had done this was still here. Nothing. She jerked left—and saw another cluster of bodies, the ground around them soaked with blood. She stood staring for a moment, shocked, sure she wasn’t seeing correctly.
They’re statues. It’s a joke. It’s, it’s . . .
She tried to pull out her cellphone but her arms were frozen. She tried to say shit again, but nothing came out. Confused, she tried to move her feet. They were stuck. She heard a roaring in her ears, as though water were rushing past. It was like one of those nightmares where you’re glued to the ground or sinking into it—
The freeze, she heard Livia saying. A normal survival reflex. But to break it, you have to take external action. Say a word. Flex your hand open and closed. Take a step. Something. And make that one external action lead to another.
She tried to say shit again, but it was as though her throat was locked tight, her jaw wired shut.
“Sh . . . sh . . . ,” she managed. She felt her stomach clenching and she pushed harder, managing to draw out the sound: “Shhhhhhhh . . .”
And then the word broke through. She said it again and again, afraid if she stopped, her throat would close again. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . .”
She was talking. She could talk. “Move, Alondra,” she said, panting. “Fucking move . . .”
But she couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t listen. She imagined her toes. Tried to wiggle them. She made her foot turn back and forth, as though stubbing out a fallen cigarette. She forced the foot forward, an inch, another, two more, like someone confirming the ground would support her weight. She managed a shaking step. Then a second. And suddenly the freeze was gone. It was as though she’d burst free of a straitjacket, an invisible cocoon.
Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t reach into her jacket pocket, and when she finally did, she nearly dropped her cellphone. She managed to punch in 411 and was about to press Call when she realized that was information, it was 911 she needed. She deleted the entry, got the correct digits in, hit Call, and raised the phone to her ear.
One ring, then: “911, what is your emergency?”
“This is Alondra Diaz,” she said. Her voice was still high and shaky and she fought to control it. “I’m an assistant US Attorney. I’m in Freeway Park. There are . . . bodies here. Five. No, wait, six.”
“Ma’am, are you sure—”
“I’m sure. I’m looking at them. I don’t know what happened. There’s blood on the ground. Lots of it.”
“Are you in danger?”
She remembered what the man had said: You need to watch your back. I think it’s about that big case of yours.
“I don’t . . . I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone else is here.”
“Okay. We’re sending a patrol car now. Wait for them, but only if you’re sure you’re safe.”