Page 51 of Fatal Strike
“No, sir.”
Livingston whirled to Jon and Leah. “I’m telling you Dylan is behind this.”
33
SILVIA PARKED HER CARin the bank parking lot and locked it. Her gaze darted in every direction. Each bird in flight and scampering squirrel shook her resolve. Perspiration soaked her uniform. She dropped her keys and bent to pick them up, all the while praying she was doing the right thing. Dylan needed money. If he weren’t an innocent man hiding from the law, he’d withdraw it himself. Even if a police officer questioned her, this was her bank and her money. She had a right to be here.
Silvia slowly rose from the pavement and placed her keys inside the side pocket of her purse. What if the chief of police had someone watching her? What if FBI agents peered at her through binoculars? Maybe Agents Riesel and Colbert, who kept pelting her with questions.
Taking a deep breath, she arched her shoulders and walkedtoward the white-and-tan stone building housing her bank. Pain seared across the top of her head and down her back. Stress. Tension.
She’d help exonerate Dylan for the string of horrible crimes he hadn’t committed. She could sell her house to pay for the best defense attorney money could buy. Mothers made sacrifices for their children. They hurt and cried, wiped away their tears only to face the same trauma again. Joy came with precious moments that overcame the bad ones.
Her mind swept to Aaron. Silvia had read that some boys looked for family in gangs and the promise of big money. She didn’t understand what drove Aaron to the Venenos. What had changed him to choose a murderous gang? His parents were good people. She ached for them. Dylan and Aaron had played baseball and soccer, taken catechism, and gone on countless sleepovers. One Friday night when the boys were twelve, they decided to camp out in her backyard. She made a fire in the grill and let them make s’mores. As soon as the sun went down, Aaron flipped on the backyard light. Such big brave boys.
Landon behaved well too. He’d been at the house earlier on the night Dylan disappeared. Now they were both dead and only Dylan survived.
She approached the bank’s entrance. As the door swung open, the air-conditioning bathed her face and dried the dampness. But the cooler temps didn’t lift her burden.
A man was ahead of her, and Silvia was short on time. She glanced at the bank’s security guard. Her knees wobbled. She decided to withdraw more than five hundred in case Dylan had underestimated his needs.
At the teller window, a young woman processed her completed withdrawal slip. Did the bank report sizable transactions?She should have researched the law. Praying away her doubts, she resolved to have a stronger attitude. The money was hers to do with as she pleased.
“Would you like large bills for the seven hundred dollars?” The teller smiled.
“I prefer twenties.”
Silvia left the bank, still shaking. Within ten minutes, she breathed the sterile air of Dr. Rios’s dentist office. She was at the front, talking to his wife, Anna, who worked as a receptionist, when a man entered.
“Is Silvia Ortega here?” he said.
She studied him, dark-skinned and in his late twenties. His eyes were red, pupils enlarged. “I’m she.”
“Dylan recommended you for a cleaning. I’m a little nervous about dentists and stuff.”
Her heart beat so fast that it hurt. “You’ll need to make an appointment and complete paperwork.” Silvia opened the file drawer and pulled out the new-patient info sheet. “Since Dylan suggested I take care of your cleaning, why don’t you come on back and I’ll explain what’s needed?”
“Appreciate the help, ma’am.”
34
JON DROVE SOUTH ON ROUTE 288to the working farm prison near Angleton that Will Rawlyns called home. Another steamy August day, clear blue sky, and not a hint of a breeze.
He and Leah passed a brick sign displaying “Wayne Scott Unit, Texas Department of Criminal Justice” and turned down a dead-end road, lined with live oaks. Rural and isolated. On the left side were one-story brick homes for prison employees.
Beyond grazing cows and horses in green pastures stood towering grain silos and huge barns. Wayne Scott Trusty buildings housed offenders who’d been convicted of lesser crimes. That’s where Dylan had done his debt to society. The 5,766 acres provided plenty of farmwork to keep inmates busy.
“I checked Rawlyns’s visitor list—a sister and Father Gabriel,” Leah said as they exited Jon’s truck.
“Our priest is everywhere.”
They walked inside one of the buildings, where they waited for approval to see Rawlyns. The dank smell of discontent and greed seemed to permeate the air. These men were lifers, no parole and nothing to lose. Desperation spun their world on an axis reinforcing “Only the strong survive.” How many were civil to family and friends? Usually the four walls and an open toilet plunged the inmates into a nasty attitude. For sure, chaplains and those committed to education and life skills had their hands full.
Rawlyns entered the air-conditioned interview room flaunting cuffs like armor. A scar from the corner of his left eye to his jawline swirled red and angry. The way his white inmate uniform draped his frame, cancer claimed weight loss.
Rawlyns slumped into a chair across from Leah and Jon. “I’m a busy man. What’s this about?”
Jon introduced himself and Leah. “Mr. Rawlyns, we’re looking for information on three murder cases in Galveston.”
