Van (Cold Fury Hockey 9)

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.

It was a chance I was taking coming here...being recognized. The most I could do was put my glasses on, and hoped that no Cold Fury fans worked in this prison, or even a die-hard fan who knew many of the league's players.

The process to meet a prisoner isn't overly complicated, but it takes time. I check in, go through two metal detectors and a pat down. I'm led to a waiting room, where about ten other people sit, waiting for their visit with a loved one. I'd learned that some prisoners could meet in an open room with limited contact. Other prisoners--the more dangerous ones--were kept behind a glass partition and we had to communicate via phones.

Arco was in this category.

"First time?" a man says beside me where we perch on flimsy plastic chairs.

I turn to look at him warily, but he's wearing nothing but the pleasantly bland smile of someone making conversation.

"Yeah," I admit.

"This place is the pits," he says. "My son is in here for armed robbery. I try to get to see him at least once a month and it kills me. This place is sucking the life right out of him."

"I can imagine," I mutter, not really wanting to talk about it.

"Who are you visiting?" the guy asks genially.

"A friend," I tell him, but Arco is no friend of mine.

"What's he in for--" the man starts to ask, but a door opens.

A security guard calls out my name. "Grant VanBuskirk."

I'm thankful they didn't use my current identity, and I probably owe thanks to the warden for that, however he annotated Arco's file.

Standing up, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. The man calls out, "Good luck," but I don't acknowledge him. My stomach is churning as I walk toward the guard, trying to prepare myself to face my father for the first time in two decades.

--

Arco VanBuskirk was born and raised in the D.C. area. He was a handsome man. Smart, outgoing, and the life of any party. He sold insurance and was quite good at it. He married Miriam when he was almost thirty and she was twenty. She used to tell me it was true love at first sight, but I'm pretty sure Arco manipulated her into falling in love with him. They had me within nine months.

I have no idea if Arco was raping and murdering women when he married my mom, but he was arrested for five murders when I was just seven years old. I was eight when he was convicted and I was in court for his sentencing. Because my father was tried in the summer, my mom made me attend every day of the trial, as she resolutely refused to believe her husband could do something so heinous. She felt we needed to present a united front. She did not care that her third-grade son had to hear the horrific details of what his father was accused of doing. I had nightmares for years, but I still loved my mother.

When Arco was convicted and received his sentence, he bragged to the court there were many others they'd never find. I remember how proud of himself he seemed.

My mom killed herself three days later, unable to accept she had been so wrong about him.

Arco's sister, Etta Turner, was four years older than him and recently divorced. She knew her brother was a sociopath, just like the court shrinks did. Luckily, his insanity defense fell on deaf ears with the jury, but Etta would always tell me, "Your father is just batshit crazy."

Temporary custody was granted to Etta, who also was still in the D.C. area but had little to no contact with her brother. She once admitted to me when I got older that he killed her cat right in front of her when they were kids, and that's when she knew his mental health was corroded beyond repair.

But Etta swooped in and became my savior. It didn't take her long to realize we couldn't stay in the area. School had become intolerable to me, as I'd become an easy target for bullies. If I wasn't getting my ass kicked because my father was a serial killer, I was being patently ignored by everyone else, including my teachers. My grades plummeted, and that was when I started the long but permanent withdrawal inward.

Etta had seen enough of this after only three months. Her divorce left her well off, so she spent a shit pot full of money petitioning the court to terminate Arco's parental rights. The only good thing he ever did for me was to not fight the petition, and after I was awarded full and sole custody to Etta, she fled with me across the country.

We settled in Redding, California, and before I reached my ninth birthday my name was Van Turner and Etta was my mother for all intents and purposes.

The guard leads me to a large room with several partitioned desks separating visitors from inmates. I sit in a metal folding chair with a small wooden ledge in front of me. There's a phone receiver attached to the partition that blocks me off from the chairs to my left and right. A Plexiglas

shield separates me from the room where the inmates are led through.

I'm drumming my fingers on the worn wood of the desk, trying to appear calm for that moment when Arco walks in.

And when he does, my gut contracts so hard I'm afraid I'm going to shit myself.

He's led in by a guard who holds on to his elbow, wearing a beige jumpsuit with his hands and legs shackled. He's hunched over as he shuffles inside and his gaze goes along the row of people on my side of the glass. When his eyes lock on to mine, his lips curve into what could be deemed a relieved smile.

I don't trust it for a moment.

Fuck he looks bad. If my math is right, he's got to be going on fifty-nine years old, but he looks like he's eighty. He was once a tall and powerful man; now he's frail. His body is emaciated, his face gaunt. His hair is almost completely gray, including the grizzled beard he's sporting.

I've refused to look at any news articles or pictures of him since I moved to California. When I got older, Etta would keep me updated to some extent. She'd let me know how his appeals went, or tell me when I'd receive a letter from him. Every single one of them went into the garbage can. Arco was nothing to me.

With the guard guiding him, Arco ambles with short steps to the chair opposite me and waits for his handcuffs to be removed, after which he takes a seat with his legs still shackled. He just stares at me a moment, almost as if he's drinking me in. His eyes roam over my face, coming back repeatedly to my eyes, which are also his eyes. I keep my expression neutral and just wait to see what he does.

Finally he picks up the receiver on his end, and I reluctantly do the same. When I press it to my ear, I hear his monstrous voice say, "I knew you'd come."

"Only to see for myself you were dying," I say callously.

This causes Arco to chuckle as he shakes his head.

"Still a little pissant," he says with clear affection. It makes me queasy that he thinks he even has the right to feel anything for me.

But then his eyes turn hard and calculating. Leaning toward the glass and placing a forearm on his desk, he says in a low voice, "But we know that's not the only reason you came."

Fuck, I hate he knows that about me. I also hate the look on his face that says he has the upper hand, and it pisses me off.