The Clock Strikes Nun

by Alice Loweecey

  Giulia returned the head pats. “Or perhaps making it harder.”

  The light dawned in tandem.

  Dona slapped the door. “That’s why you make the big bucks.”

  Shandeen stepped away from the window. “If you want to avoid the construction during rush hour, take the West End bridge.”

  Thirteen

  The Nunmobile crept forward another car length. Three blocks in twenty minutes. Little Zlatan was suggesting she should’ve visited the bathroom before leaving Dahlia.

  She risked taking her eyes off the road to search for an alternate route on Apple Maps. The phone’s voice said, “In two hundred feet, turn right on Steuben Street.”

  “Thank you, Siri.”

  A motorcycle passed her on the shoulder. The light changed. Everyone moved forward another car length, including the Jeep with the shuddering bass on her left and the dueling panel vans behind her and the Jeep. A block ahead, a city bus cut off a taxi, crushing an orange traffic cone beneath its wheels.

  Her closed windows and air conditioning spared her most of the car horn and pneumatic drill cacophony. Siri nagged her to turn right in one hundred feet.

  “I will when I can move, thank you.”

  Another half-block. Relative freedom beckoned. Only one car in five chose the bridge route. More creeping. The thumping bass stopped for a blessed moment, then restarted with a new song.

  A quarter-block. An eighth.

  The Nunmobile took advantage of an opening too small for most of the other vehicles around her and made Siri happy.

  “In one mile, take ramp on right to West End Bridge.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  One of the vans squeezed itself through the same opening, but the thudding Jeep did not. Traffic clogged the entrance ramp, but at least she could accelerate onto the bridge itself.

  CRACK.

  The steering wheel jerked out of her hands.

  WHAM.

  SCREECH.

  The passenger side of the Nunmobile scraped along the guard rail at forty miles per hour.

  POW.

  A tire blew and the right front bumper twisted and smashed into the rail. The airbags deployed with the force of a prizefighter’s punch to her chest. She slammed the brakes. The back end of the car lifted a hair, sending Giulia’s stomach into outer space. She wrenched the wheel around. The right front tire spun in mid-air.

  A van sped away.

  Giulia stared out at the Ohio River, thinking irrationally, “At least I’m wearing clean underwear.”

  Her next thought: “Zlatan.”

  A bright red Dodge Caravan pulled over to the rail in front of her. The second the vehicle stopped, three small faces appeared in the back window. Another second later, two doors opened and six kids in soccer uniforms spilled out.

  Giulia’s ears rang. When she blinked, the deflating airbag pulsed before her eyes like a lava lamp. A sharp knock on her widow penetrated the temporary tinnitus.

  “Miss? Are you all right?”

  Giulia turned her head in a comical imitation of slow motion. Six young faces clustered around a woman wearing a backwards baseball cap and a t-shirt with a soccer club logo on the pocket.

  The woman handed a phone to the tallest child. “Call 911.”

  “Cool!” The teenager dialed.

  The woman knocked again. “Miss, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

  Giulia’s hands, still clutching the steering wheel around the sagging air bag, refused to move. She scowled at her left hand. One by one, her fingers unclenched. She pressed the window switch. Cars roared past her faster than her eyes could process. She blinked several times.

  “I don’t think so. Hurt, I mean.”

  Relief filled the woman’s face.

  “This is just like CSI,” said a young girl with a Captain America headband.

  “Wait ’til I tell the guys at camp,” said the smallest boy.

  “Mom, we have to help her,” said a boy with a mop of red hair.

  “Avengers assemble!” said another boy with big brown eyes.

  The soccer mom tapped the heads of the four smaller children. “Go stand by the back of the car.”

  “Mo—om.”

  “Now.” Wind from the passing traffic snatched at her baseball cap and she stuffed it into her back pocket. “Crazy traffic. Move.”

  With much pouting and shuffling of feet in turf shoes, they obeyed. A double semi thundering by at that moment may have convinced them of the wisdom of getting out of the way.

  The tall teenager returned the phone to her mother. “The 911 operator said maybe ten minutes because of the construction.”

  The mother pointed to the oldest boy. “Look under the front of the lady’s car to see if anything’s leaking.”

  “On it, Ma.” He dropped flat on the pavement. A moment later his brown eyes reappeared above the crumpled hood. “I smell brake fluid and antifreeze, but no gas. No smoke either.”

  “Good.” She leaned into the window. “Miss, I’m going to open your door. You should get out of the car just to be safe.”

  The adrenaline rush hit Giulia. Both hands started to shake.

  A siren undercut the continual undercurrent of cars and motorcycles and trucks whizzing past.

  “Miss, is anything broken?”

  Giulia clenched her fists until the slight pain from her short nails digging into her skin pierced the reaction fog and quakes. She touched her legs, knees, elbows, and belly. “Everything appears to be intact.”

  “Good. My son is going to help you out of the car. Unbuckle your seat belt.”

  A strong, skinny arm came around Giulia’s shoulders. “I’ve got you, ma’am.”

  Giulia allowed him to ease her up and out. She took a long, shuddering breath, another, then smiled at her efficient angels of mercy.

  “Thank you. I’m a little wobbly.”

  “No surprise there.”

  Giulia turned her head. “Ow. Could you turn off the ignition?”

  The boy grinned. “You bet.” He stroked the key before handing the keyring to Giulia. “How does it handle? Can it drift around corners?”

  His mother held up a warning finger. “This is not an episode of The Grand Tour.” She transferred the finger to her other teenager. “I see the police and ambulance are about to reach us if enough people obey the law and let them through. Please herd those four back into the car.”

  Howls of protest from the players in question.

  “Misfortune of being the youngest. You can watch through the back window. You two take their spot by the back of the car, please. Everyone stay out of the way of the emergency medical technicians and the police officers. Now.”

  All the soccer players obeyed as the ambulance and a black-and-white arrived simultaneously. Giulia’s head threatened to burst from the combined lights and sirens. Fortunately the sirens quit when the vehicles stopped. To avoid the lights, she inspected the front end of her car. What she saw made her sit down hard on the lip of the guard rail.

  The ambulance set out flares and one of the uniformed officers directed traffic out of the right-hand lane. The other approached the Nunmobile.

  Soccer Mom took over. “Officer, this is all the fault of a dirty white panel van, one of those anonymous ones we always warn our kids about in Stranger Danger classes. It cut us off and deliberately slammed into this young woman’s car. It didn’t drive away after the first slam either. It pushed her car against the guard rail and it was going at least ten miles over the speed limit.”

  “Just like NASCAR, Ma.”

  “Hush up. Then, officer, it rammed the front of her car into the guard rail.” She pointed out the obvious. “I’m quite sure the maniac wanted to push her right into the river.”

  “The back wheels got airborne, Ma. Tell him
that.”

  “Just like Paul Walker in The Fast and the Furious, Ma.”

  “Both of you hush this instant. Don’t distract the policeman.”

  While this triangle of information bombarded the police officer, the EMT put Giulia through concussion protocol.

  “I didn’t hit my head.” She blinked after the flashlight stopped blinding each eye. “The seat belt kept me in place.”

  “You would’ve pitched through the window and into the river without it,” he said.

  Giulia swallowed.

  “Sorry. I was trying to compliment you on your foresight.”

  She clutched his wrist. “I’m three months pregnant.”

  He fired questions at her: First pregnancy? Any complications? Any pain in your abdominal region? Then he had her lay supine on the asphalt and listened for the baby’s heartbeat.

  “Good and steady, from what I can hear with this crazy traffic.” He helped her sit up. “Pregnancy hormones made my wife cry all the time too.” He handed her a piece of gauze. “Closest thing I’ve got to a tissue.”

  Giulia pressed the thin white material to her eyes while he worked on her shoulder. “Ouch.”

  “You’ve pulled a few muscles here. Rotator cuff seems intact. Doesn’t require a sling unless you’d like extra sympathy from the husband.” He winked.

  That brought out a real smile. “I’m good.”

  He finished with the rest of the points of contact between her body and the insides of the car. “So are your neck and knees. I think you avoided whiplash too.”

  “They came at me from the side.”

  “Right. You’re not in your third trimester, so take ibuprofen for the aches you’ll have tomorrow morning. See your GP for the shoulder, and I recommend a sonogram for the baby as a precaution.”

  “I’ll make the call as soon as I get home.”

  Both older soccer players hovered at the elbows of the police officer now.

  “It really was like watching Rizzoli and Isles.”

  “The van went after the little car like Godzilla stomping Tokyo.”

  “I only wish I’d seen the license plate,” their mother said. “Just a second.” She signaled the four inside to come out. “Did any of you see the white van’s license plate?”

  Eagerness drained from their faces.

  “No, Ma.”

  “It looked dirty.”

  “Yeah, like it was covered up on purpose.”

  Enthusiasm returned.

  “Maybe it’s a bank robbery gone bad!”

  “Or Homeland Security chasing a terrorist!”

  “Cool!”

  The officer turned away from the kids to hide a smile. “Ma’am, can you give me your version of what happened?”

  Giulia thrust calculations of the repair bill and concomitant insurance increase out of her head. Speaking at a pace to allow him to write without strain, she described the traffic jam, the jeep and two vans, the turn off, the single van, and the attack.

  “It was deliberate. I’m sorry I didn’t get a look at the license plate. I should’ve thought as well as acted.”

  “Ma’am, your instincts prevented a much worse outcome. Did you notice anything unusual about the vehicle?”

  Giulia squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out the traffic, the lights, and the chattering soccer family. “No.” She opened them and made a frustrated face. “It was a plain white panel van with no markings I could see. Like The Scoop’s van.”

  She heard her own words. Why would The Scoop try to run her off the bridge?

  The officer said, “The who?”

  Giulia’s grin stretched her entire face. “You just made my afternoon.”

  A flatbed tow truck pulled inside the perimeter created by the flares. Giulia finished giving the officer her information and handed her AAA card to the truck driver. As they discussed collision shops, the soccer family piled back into their Caravan.

  With the Nunmobile’s triage destination agreed upon, Giulia retrieved her messenger bag. The driver winched the car onto the flatbed.

  Giulia walked over to the soccer family. “Thank you for all your help.”

  “Are you okay?” said three of the six.

  “Would you like us to follow you?” said their mother. “Everybody buckle yourselves in, please. We’re going to get McDonald’s for supper.”

  Cheers from the passengers.

  “Tonight was supposed to be mystery leftover packets on the grill. You’re their hero, Ms.—I never got your name.”

  Giulia handed her a business card. “Your kids might be interested to know what I do for a living.”

  The mother held the card at arms’ length. “My reading glasses are in my purse…holy cow. They’re going to mob you.” She steered Giulia by the elbow to the Caravan’s middle window. “Guys, we’ve been helping a real-life private eye.” She held up the card.

  Six voices answered at once.

  “No way!”

  “Cool!”

  “Lemme see—” A hand snatched the card.

  “Can we see your gun?”

  “Can we take your picture?”

  “Mom, please take our picture with the private eye.”

  “Please?” Five voices echoed the request.

  The tow truck driver yelled, “Ready to go.”

  Giulia put her back against the side of the Caravan, and six mouths breathed down her neck and into her ears.

  Their mother said, “One-two-three—everybody say ‘Sherlock.’”

  Fourteen

  “I’ll get black-and-whites to stop them for speeding every time they get on a highway. I’ll get their drivers’ licenses suspended. No. I’ll get them revoked.”

  Frank paced the kitchen of their Cape Cod, gesturing at the windows, the walls, the ceiling. Giulia sat at the table drinking sweetened iced tea to wash down the ibuprofen.

  “Honey, I don’t know for certain it was their creeper van. The Scoop doesn’t own the only unmarked white panel truck in town.”

  “If you’d seen the license plate I could go after them with a clear conscience.” He opened the refrigerator, unscrewed the cap of a Black and Tan, and drank.

  “As I told the uniformed officer at the scene, I was occupied with keeping my poor car out of the river.”

  Her husband stopped pacing to embrace her. “Screw the car. You kept yourself out of the river.” He placed both hands over her stomach. “Zlatan, what do you think of your mother’s driving skills? Can she perform under pressure or what?”

  Giulia said in all seriousness, “I’m worried he’ll be born an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Why is that bad? I’ll strap him to my back and take him motorcycle riding for his first birthday.”

  “Only if you agree we are naming him Patrick or James or something else Irish and normal.”

  “Anything for my kickass wife.”

  The doorbell rang. Frank left the room and returned with two thick, wrapped sandwiches.

  “No cooking after traumatic experiences. Your dinner, madame.”

  Giulia unwrapped hers. “Bánh mì?” She pulled Frank’s face down to hers and kissed him. “Zlatan and his mother approve.” She didn’t speak again until she’d swallowed the first bite. “Please tell me this was hideously expensive so I’ll be compelled to learn how to make it at home.”

  “This is why all my brothers are jealous.” He opened another beer and refilled Giulia’s iced tea.

  She took her time chewing her next bite. “Another reason the van might not belong to The Scoop.” She told him about Shandeen and Dona and their “helpful” directions to avoid the road construction.

  “What is this company? Real Housewives of—” He directed a helpless look at her.

  “Dahlia.”

  “Yeah, th
e flower.” He opened a search window on his phone. “Dresses. More dresses.” A whistle. “They have to be making money hand over fist with these prices.”

  “I was informed today they use all fair trade labor and materials.” She finished her sandwich. “This is definitely going to be added to my copycat takeout recipes.”

  “The husband approves.” He gathered the wrappers and tossed them in the trash.

  Giulia opened her phone. “Hold on to something.” She dialed The Scoop and put it on speaker.

  “You’ve reached The Scoop. We want to know all the details! Leave us a message with your story and our investigative team will turn over every rock.”

  “This is Giulia Driscoll. An unmarked white panel truck tried to shove my car into the Ohio River a few hours ago. Convince me it wasn’t yours.”

  Fifteen

  Ken Kanning, the face of The Scoop, picked up before Giulia completed her final sentence.

  “Ms. Driscoll, what? Where? Today? Did any traffic cameras catch it?” If he was anxious or guilty, his mellifluous voice betrayed nothing.

  “I am not aware of any traffic cameras on the West End Bridge.”

  Frank mouthed On the ramps as the sounds of keystrokes came through the speaker.

  Kanning confirmed it. “Only on the entrance and exit ramps, dammit. Where’s excessive government oversight when I need it?” More typing. “What time?”

  To her chagrin, Giulia spoke reasonably fluent Kanning. “Approximately quarter to five.”

  New, faint clicks replaced the keyboard taps coming from Giulia’s speaker. Mouse clicks Giulia and Frank mouthed at each other, then grinned.

  “There it is. Maybe. These traffic cameras are pieces of crap.” His voice changed. “Note to Bull: we need to do an in-depth on the tax dollars wasted by Cottonwood’s bloated political machine.”

  Frank smothered a laugh. Giulia made a face at him and said into the phone, “You haven’t answered my question.”

  The typing stopped. “You had a question?”

  In precise syllables, Giulia repeated her reason for dialing him.