11th hour

Chapter 118

It was a pretty Sunday morning and I was at Mountain Lake Park, herding children.

Well, Martha was herding children and I was blowing the whistle and giving commands. Martha was a little older than the kids, who were about six or seven, three girls and a boy.

I held Martha by the scruff of her neck, said, “Get ’em,” let her go, and she loped over to the little squealers and ran circles around them. I said, “Come,” blew on the whistle — high-low-high — and Martha ran back to me, wagging her tail, happy lights sparkling in her eyes.

I asked her to cut between the little kids, separate the tallest little girl from the rest. The kids and their nannies laughed and more people gathered.

Other dogs saw that a good time was going on and wanted to get in on it. And so barking and yapping added volume and range to the giddiness.

Bystanders called out asking for more tricks, and volunteers stepped forward to be herded. Martha showed off and we got rounds of applause.

Oh, man, I had to do this more often.

And that’s when I felt a pain in my gut.

I bent over, grabbed my knees, and Martha broke ranks and licked my face. I was hit with another cramp, and this time, I thought the worst.

I was about to miscarry in my second trimester. How could this happen? Please, God. Don’t let me lose my baby.

I leashed Martha, summoned a smile for the children, waved good-bye, and found a bench at the edge of the park.

My cell phone wasn’t charged to the limit, but I had enough juice to call police dispatch, then my doctor, and then Joe. I was able to reach only the police.

A squad car pulled up. Tom Ferrino jumped out.

I said, “Take me to the hospital, Tommy. I’m going to give you my keys so you can bring Martha home afterward.”

“What’s wrong, Sergeant? Are you in pain?”

He helped me and Martha into the back of the car. “Put on the siren,” I said. “Drive as fast as you can.”

My phone rang as we rounded the corner from Arguello Boulevard to Sacramento Street and were in sight of the hospital. I looked at my phone. The caller was Joe.

“Where are you?” I asked him.

“I’m at the airport. My flight leaves in fifteen minutes. What’s happening?”

“You’re going back to DC?” I asked.

I’d lost him. I’d lost Joe to that woman in DC. I’d shut him out, locked my door, refused phone calls. What in God’s name could I expect? I bit my lip and held on to the armrest as the cramps hit me again.

Joe said, “I’m told that I’m the best border security guy around. I’m in demand.” He laughed. “Lindsay? I can’t hear you. Wait until the sirens blow past you.”

I shouted, “I’m going to Metro Hospital. I need you, Joe. I need you to come right now. The sirens are with me.”