Suddenly, a nearby fit of violent coughing caught Annabel's attention. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a man about thirty years old standing among the crowd. He was wearing a tweed suit and a straw boater, and in his hand was part of some sort of sausage that he had probably purchased at one of the food stands scattered around the park. His other hand was clutching his throat, and his face was turning a mottled blue and red as he continued to choke and gag. Beside him, an anxious-looking young woman plucked at his sleeve and said, "Desmond? What's wrong, Desmond?" She was holding the hand of a small girl, probably their daughter, who was staring up at the coughing man in a mixture of amazement and fear.
Annabel recognized the problem immediately. Unless someone did something quickly, the man might die right here in the middle of the park on a beautiful sunny day, in front of his horrified wife and child.
Annabel's training took over without her even having to think about it. She took a couple of quick steps that brought her behind the choking man, and her arms went around his midsection. She caught hold of her left wrist with her right hand and jerked back hard, driving her hands into the man's diaphragm. An explosion of air came from his mouth as Annabel executed the Heimlich maneuver. The piece of sausage that had almost killed him flew out of his mouth as well.
Annabel let go of the man and began backing away as he bent over and gasped for breath, drawing in great lungfuls of air. His wife was still hovering around him worriedly, but in between gasps, he assured her, "I'm. . . all right now . . . Who. . . someone grabbed me. . ..".
The little girl pointed and said in a loud voice, "That fireman right there, Papa."
The man started to turn, and Annabel ducked away into the crowd. Heads were starting to turn, and eyes were, staring curiously toward the spot where she had been. She didn't want the attention, didn't want Cole noticing the commotion and coming over to see what it was all about. She walked away quickly, not running but not wasting any time, either.
A faint smile tugged at her mouth. She had just carried out the world's first Heimlich Maneuver. Too bad she wouldn't get any credit for it; otherwise, she supposed, it would be called the Lowell maneuver.
Without warning, someone thrust a fire hose in her hands. "Come on," a helmeted fireman said. "We've got to get ready."
She found herself with a large group of firemen from a variety of engine companies. They were standing beside a pumper with a head of steam up. Across an open space was a pumper from the Oakland department, likewise with steam up and ready to pump. She had stumbled into the fire hose shoot-out, Annabel realized.
She was toward the back of the line of men handling the hose for the San Francisco department. That was a stroke of luck, she told herself; maybe she wouldn't get so soaked that she would have to change uniforms afterward. One thing was certain—no matter how wet she got, she couldn't go into that tent and start taking off her clothes while she was surrounded by firemen.
Cole must not have been entered in this contest. She tried to look up and down the line of firemen without being too obvious about it, and she didn't see him among them. She kept her head down and the helmet tilted over her eyes, just in case he wandered over to watch the competition.
The contest was simple. The teams from Oakland and San Francisco would train their hoses on each other and fire away with the pressurized streams of water until all the members of one team had been knocked off their feet It made for a wet, messy, muddy, raucous competition, and the crowds loved it, although they had learned to stay well back. Annabel tightened her grip on the hose and swallowed. She had never done anything like this before, but she was confident in her ability to handle it
Someone gave the signal to start and valves were opened on each of the pumpers. Suddenly, the hose bucked and jumped like a live thing in Annabel's hands. Even with more than a dozen men hanging on to it, the hose tried to writhe and twist out of their grip from the pressure of the water passing through it. A thick, powerful stream erupted from the nozzle and sprayed across the open area between the two teams. The San Francisco firemen struck first as their hose began to blast a second before the one attached to the Oakland pumper.
A couple of men in the forefront of the Oakland squad went down immediately as the stream of water struck them. The other members of the Oakland team, at a quick disadvantage, dug in their heels and tried to control their hose. Water slammed into the men in the front ranks of the San Francisco unit, staggering them. They managed to keep their feet, however, except for one man who slipped and fell. He rolled away and stood up disgustedly, forbidden by the rules of the contest to touch the fire hose again.