Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He and I both know there aren’t any locks on the bedroom doors.
Chapter 9
Van
I take the last sip of gas station coffee I’d picked up about twenty minutes ago and place the empty Styrofoam cup in the cup holder. I look across the parking to the visitor entrance. I’ve been here once before but I didn’t take in the details. I’ve been sitting in this parking lot for over four hours now, waiting for visiting hours to start.
I’ve had plenty of time the last several hours to look at the facility. The visitors’ complex is a large square building with a guard tower rising up from the southeast corner. Behind that building is the prison itself. Everything is done in white stucco that’s aged and molded over the years. A twenty-foot fence with barbed wire coils at the top separates the visitors’ center from the rest of the facility, but even if a prisoner were to make it past that, there’s another twenty-foot fence with barbed wire enclosing the visitor building from the outside world.
When I see a few people start to arrive, I don’t get out of my truck right away. Instead I lean over to my glove compartment and pull out a worn envelope I’d received almost three months ago. Ironically, it had come just one week before I got the trade offer to come east to the Cold Fury.
It’s addressed to Grant VanBuskirk in care of Etta Turner at Etta’s home in Redding, California. I was still playing for the LA Demons when she received it. My standing orders were to toss out any letters from the Virginia Department of Corrections, and she always did that. But this one wasn’t from him, but rather from the warden’s office. She felt it important enough to forward to me.
I reach inside the envelope and pull the letter out.
Dear Mr. VanBuskirk,
I am writing this inquiry to you per the request of Inmate #94920555, Arco VanBuskirk. As you are his next of kin, he has asked me to inform you that he has been diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer and his prognosis is grim, since he is choosing not to undergo treatment. Mr. VanBuskirk has attempted to contact you, but he suspects you are not reading his letters. He wanted to make one last effort to reach you, in the hopes that you might consider a phone call or a visit with him before he passes.
If you could please contact me to discuss this, I can forward your decision to Mr. VanBuskirk.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Arnold Glyner
Warden, Virginia Department of Corrections
Richmond Maximum Security Prison
I stare at the greeting again.
Dear Mr. VanBuskirk.
That hasn’t been my name since I was nine years old, when Etta helped me legally change my name when she adopted me. The only nod I gave to my heritage was to keep Van and add Etta’s last name, Turner, to create my new identity. Grant VanBuskirk died a long time ago.
With a sigh, I toss the letter and envelope onto my passenger seat. I don’t need it to get in the prison. This I was assured when I was here a few months ago. I didn’t come to see Arco, but rather I made an appointment to talk to the warden. He confirmed what I already figured.
Arco was still a sociopath, and there were no medications available that would change that.
He was indeed dying and he had maybe six months if he was lucky.
He had requested medical clemency and was denied summarily. His sentence of life in prison without parole, not to mention the horrific things he did, all were going to ensure he died in prison.
The warden did not know for sure why Arco wanted to see me, but he could only guess it was to make some type of amends.
That had cracked me up. I’d actually laughed at Mr. Glyner for his foolish assumption. Arco made amends with no one. He had not one moment of remorse for the things he did, including ruining his son’s childhood.
The last thing I got from the warden was help in paving the way for a future visit to Arco if I decided to go. I really didn’t want to, but the fucker was dying, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t have any regrets. Getting entrance was a little tricky, because as Arco’s next of kin, I was still listed under my old name. My new identification proclaimed me to be Van Turner. The warden put a note on my file to explain the name difference, and that was the best he could do. I didn’t like this, because at age twenty-eight, after playing ten years in the NHL, no one knows my true identity. That’s the way I wanted to keep it, but I think the risk at this point is needed. What happened between Simone and me last night has me freaking the fuck out.