Blood Will Tell (7 page)

The bank, which had just opened for the day, was right around the corner. The police arrived to see a man come running out carrying a flour sack, undoubtedly stuffed with money. He raised a rifle at a uniformed officer. The shot went wild, but police and civilians hit the sidewalk as the man ran for a double-parked pickup.

Brandy caught only a glimpse of the red-haired woman in the truck, but from the hair, the man's flour sack and Day-Glo orange hunting cap, and the silvered sunglasses both wore, she recognized Chase and Jenny Anderson, wanted in three states for bank robbery, murder, assault, grand theft auto, and assorted lesser offenses. They hit banks in small cities like Murphy, where clerks were not protected behind bulletproof glass. First thing on a payday, they staged a surprise attack, emptying the tills, then fleeing in a stolen vehicle that would later be found abandoned.

The Andersons robbed a bank only once every three to five weeks, never on an exact schedule, reclaiming the element of surprise whenever they struck anew. They had pulled off five successful robberies in the past six months in Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. The Murphy police were determined not to let them make it six.

The truck was a blue four-wheel drive Ford pickup. Anderson jumped into the driver's seat and careened around the courthouse square to head out of town toward the lake.

That was not the shortest way out of Kentucky, but it afforded a tangle of back roads. Brandy and Church dashed for the unmarked car, and pulled out behind a pair of black-and-whites. In the rearview mirror, Brandy saw a couple of tardy uniforms caught by Chief Benton, and sent into the bank. Everyone wanted to chase the robbers; no one wanted to interview witnesses.

They radioed the state police, but the Andersons knew as well as they did that the nearest post was thirty miles from Murphy in the opposite direction. The sheriff's patrol was already on the way.

The line of vehicles barreled out of Murphy, headed toward the Land Between the Lakes. If the Andersons wanted to escape south into Tennessee, there was only one bridge. The state or county could get a patrol car there before the Andersons arrived.

Realizing that, the fugitives would probably swing north—if their intent was to get out of the state.

But there was nothing to keep them from losing themselves amid the dozens of roads between Murphy and the lake. The Andersons had hunted and fished this area all their lives. They knew the back roads so well that in every previous robbery they had eluded pursuit and disappeared.

“All cars!” the radio erupted. “We got a citizen's band report. Blue Ford pickup nearly hit a couple of kids while illegally passing a stopped school bus!"

“That's them!” Brandy exclaimed, and hit the gas.

Church flipped on the CB radio. Most of the police cars no longer had them, but the radios were cheap and their use free, so they were still more common than cellular phones.

The CB was full of voices this morning. “You damned idiot!” someone yelled. “Eastbound 94, you got a asshole in a blue pick'emup burnin’ rubber. Watch out—he'll try t'blow ya off the road!"

“Well, we know where he is,” said Brandy, hitting the siren to clear the morning traffic on the two-lane road.

The police dispatcher's voice closed off the CB chatter to announce, “The bank guard's dead. Anderson shot him first thing through the door. Get those bastards!"

A new voice on the CB shouted angrily, “Hey—mo-ron! You got yer ears on? Think you own the damn road?"

“Oh, God,” said Brandy. “One of these cowboys gets mad enough, they might try to stop him. The Andersons have already killed four people."

Church untangled the CB mike from the police equipment. “Breaker one-nine. Breaker one-nine. This is the police. Report whereabouts of blue 1987 Ford pickup driving recklessly east on 94. Suspects are armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend! Report location. Repeat, do not attempt to stop the truck!"

When Church let go of the switch, the reports walked all over one another as good citizens tried to help. “Turned off on 1713,” came through the garble.

Then, a different voice, “They just passed us, driving like—” A cracking noise, followed by “Oh, my God! They're shooting at us!"

“Stop your car! Let them go!” Church ordered into the mike as Brandy swung their car onto 1713. Then, when there was no immediate reply, “Are you hurt?"

“No,” the voice replied, shaken. “They kept going."

“They must have their CB on,” said Brandy, speeding up on the nearly deserted road. They were the first car on the chase now, having just come up on the 1713 turnoff when they got the message. Those ahead of them had to come back to the turn, but in the rearview mirror Brandy could see the blue light of at least one black-and-white behind them.

The road wound, then bounced over low hills. They waved as they passed a green Chevy with a CB antenna, pulled over to the side—their informants.

“Where does this go?” asked Church.

“Take your choice,” said Brandy. “Most of the roads on either side will lead back to 94. Straight ahead, we'll come to a split in about three miles, right to the university biological station, left to Red Hill Landing."

“So unless they take a turn somewhere along here, they'll dead-end at the lake."

“I think they're trying to get far enough ahead so we won't see them turn,” Brandy told him, gunning the car again. “They may be trying to reach a hideout, or a hidden vehicle. Maybe even a boat."

The truck was now in sight, the police car slowly gaining—but as Church picked up the bullhorn to tell them to pull over, Jenny Anderson leaned out the passenger's window with a shotgun.

Brandy swerved, heard the shot, but nothing hit the car. Church pulled his gun, but did not fire, speaking calmly into the bullhorn. “Cease firing and pull over.” He was the coolest cop under fire Brandy had ever known.

As Brandy fought to stay on the narrow road, Jenny Anderson discharged the second barrel. A thrrruunnnch! of shot hit the roof and top of the windshield, but the safety glass did its job. A couple of cracks extended downward from the crazing, but Brandy could still see to drive.

Church fired at the fleeing truck. Mrs. Anderson drew back inside, but there was no other perceptible effect. The truck sped on as fast as ever.

“Dammit, they know they can't escape!” said Brandy.

“They're desperate,” replied Church. “I'll try to get the tires."

On his third shot, one of the pickup's back tires blew, and the vehicle swerved into the ditch.

Brandy screeched their car to a halt, and she and Church remained inside as the black-and-white drew up.

“Give yourselves up,” Church ordered through the bullhorn. “Throw out your guns."

The driver's side truck door opened. Anderson dropped into the ditch and began firing.

“Shit!” whispered Church as he and Brandy ducked below the dash. The windshield was rendered opaque, then gave and fell in on them. Brandy grabbed the rifle out of its case and knocked the remaining glass out of the frame.

Anderson's next shots were accompanied by sounds of glass and metal shattering as he peppered the front of the car. The radiator spat steam and boiling water.

Two other cars with lights and sirens rolled up and stopped. The suspects should have known it was hopeless, but both husband and wife continued shooting.

“Goddamn Bonnie and Clyde!” said Church. “They want us to kill them!"

“Probably,” Brandy agreed. Rifle lined up through the steering wheel, she entered her private world, sighted carefully, entered the zone—and fired.

Chase Anderson screamed.

Jenny Anderson scrambled back through the truck and out on her husband's side, crying, “Chase! Oh, my God! Chase!"

The police converged, guns at the ready.

Chase Anderson sat in the ditch, nursing a bloody hand. His rifle lay next to him, and his wife finally surrendered her shotgun.

“Great shooting, Brandy,” said Church.

A state patrol officer asked, “You meant to hit his hand?"

“I had a rifle with a sight,” Brandy explained. “There was no reason to kill him."

“And no reason not to,” commented Melissa Blalock. In her late thirties, she was the oldest woman on the Murphy police force, a plain, no-nonsense, hard-working cop. She looked at Brandy for confirmation of her feelings about the trash now being read their rights. “Brandy—you're hurt!"

“Let me see!” Church said, turning her toward him.

Only then did Brandy feel the burning sting of the cut on her forehead, the trickle of blood down her face. “It's a glass cut,” Church said, reaching back into the car for the first aid kit. “Thank God it missed your eye."

But the cut took three stitches. By the time Brandy was back at the station, it was early afternoon. Chief Benton gave her the rest of the day off. “I'm sorry I yelled at you this morning,” he added. “Good work today, Mather.” From Benton, it was high praise.

The cut didn't really hurt, and the blow hadn't been hard enough to give her a headache, so Brandy decided to clean up her house—just in case Dan Martin finally came in this evening. She was vacuuming when the phone rang.

“Oh. Hi, Mom."

“Brenda, why did I have to hear on the radio that you were in a shootout this morning?"

“Just part of my job, Mom."

“Churchill told me you were injured."

“I wasn't shot."

“I didn't say shot. I said injured. And badly enough to be sent home. I'm coming over."

“No! I mean—I'm just on my way to get some groceries. How about I pick you up, and we can both get some?” If her mother came over, she'd stay all day.

Melody Mather fussed about the bandage on her daughter's forehead. “You shouldn't be out running around. You should be in bed. Doesn't it hurt?"

“No, Mom, I'm fine.”
Although I'll probably have a headache by the time this shopping trip is over.

At Kroger's they separated, to meet at checkout. Brandy got apples and peaches, lettuce, carrots, a couple of potatoes, bread, milk, cereal, cat food. She hesitated over frozen dinners, a staple of her existence. Did she want to stock her small freezer with those when—she just might want to do some actual cooking? She tossed four into her basket and went over to the meat counter.

Men liked steak and a baked potato. It was months since she'd cooked a meal for a man, other than helping Coreen when she went over to Church's house. Something she couldn't mention to her mother, who would wonder why her daughter didn't come to her house on Sundays instead.

It was too long since she'd had time for shopping; she needed everything. Toilet paper, tissues, dishwashing and laundry detergent, scouring powder, paper towels, tampons—

On the shelf beside the tampons were condoms.

Brandy already had some, carried one in her purse, like any modern woman. But those had grown old without ever being used. Defiantly, she plucked a new package off the shelf—and buried it under the tampons and paper towels.

Melody Mather was in line when Brandy joined the queue, a cautious three aisles away. The package of condoms scanned correctly. No one had to run to get a price check; no one announced over a loudspeaker that she was trying to purchase a package of Trojans. They went into one of the plastic sacks, and were forgotten.

“My goodness—you've bought out the store!” said Brandy's mother.

“I haven't had time to do a thorough job in weeks,” she replied, although it wasn't entirely true. She just hadn't had the energy to do more than run in and throw bread, milk, cat food, and frozen dinners into her cart.

“I don't know why you want to be a policewoman,” said her mother. “It's dangerous, it takes up all your time, and it doesn't pay."

“We agree that you don't understand, Mom,” Brandy reminded her. “It's what I want to do, and I'm happy."

“You have a teaching certificate."

“I don't want to teach. I want to catch murderers and drug dealers. Doesn't it mean anything to you that just this morning I helped to catch a man who has killed two bank guards, a teller, and a bank customer?"

“It means if he gets loose you could be his next target!” her mother retorted. “I love you, Brenda. I've already lost my son and my husband. Can't you understand that I don't want to lose my daughter, too?"

I understand that it bothers you that you can't control me anymore
, Brandy thought, but she knew better than to open that argument. “I love you, too, Mom.” She started the car and began to work her way out of the parking lot.

“Oh, Honey,” said her mother as if she had just thought of it, “do you still have my food processor?"

“Of course I do.” What did she think—that Brandy had sold it? She had borrowed it to shred carrots for a cake for the Humane Society bake sale, and had been intending to get the bulky thing off her counter ever since. Why hadn't she put it in the car on her way out today?

“I need to make coleslaw for the Women's Circle potluck. Why don't we just stop and pick it up?"

Which was, of course, why her mother hadn't mentioned it when she called; now there was no way to keep her out of the apartment. At least the place was clean. As there was no choice, Brandy said, “Sure, Mom,” as cheerfully as she could manage.

Melody Mather helped to carry in Brandy's groceries, while Brandy toted the awkward food processor down to the car. Now she'll snoop to see that I'm living right. But she had washed three days’ worth of dishes, scrubbed the bathroom, and made up the bed before her mother called. For once the surprise raid did not find Brandy's home in chaos.

By the time she wedged the food processor into the trunk, surrounded by grocery bags so it wouldn't bounce around and break, Brandy came back to her apartment to find half her groceries put away and her mother trying to shoo Sylvester, her black-and-white cat, off the counter.

“My goodness, Sweetheart, no wonder you bought out the store. You didn't have a thing to eat in the house!” She opened a can of cat food and put it down on the floor. Sylvester glared balefully at her, but finally gave in and jumped down to get the tuna treat.

It was useless for Brandy to protest that there had been a frozen dinner, a couple of eggs, and two or three cans of soup in the house. And dry food for Sylvester. To her mother's way of thinking, that was nothing.