Chapter 25 The Catcher in the Rye
Delvin Crump was in a fine mood. Inside his mailbag was another book bound for Lula Dean’s library. It seemed like she’d forgotten all about it, so Delvin had taken over as curator of the collection. It thrilled him to know his books were making it into people’s hands. He’d seen that Kelly boy reading one of his titles at the Waffle House on his way out of town that morning.
A couple days earlier, on the morning after the rally, he’d heard Lula screeching as he stopped to deliver her daily bundle of catalogs. He hadn’t really intended to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t hard to figure out she’d seen the press conference. Delvin got a little giddy just thinking about it. Augustus Wainwright had assumed that statue would be his legacy—and that all his evil deeds would be forgotten in time. Now the descendants of his victims had risen up and joined forces. And they were going to bring that bastard down.
He couldn’t have been prouder if Isaac Wright had been his own son. That boy had shown ingenuity and resolve far beyond his years. At seventeen, Isaac not only knew which battles needed to be fought, he was ready to fight them. Delvin remembered being that age like it was yesterday. He hadn’t known his ass from a hole in the ground. In fact, it had taken two tours in Afghanistan before he was able to tell them apart.
Delvin felt his smile curdle as he approached the Dugan house. Even though it was working hours, the man’s truck was in the drive. When Delvin had loaded his Jeep that morning, he hadn’t been pleased to see the priority delivery box addressed to Nathan Dugan. That evil bastard was the last person on earth he wanted to lay eyes on right now. The post office’s motto mentioned snow, sleet, and rain, but it didn’t say anything about motherfucking Nazis. Delvin parked his Jeep at the curb and walked down the drive. The box he carried was not particularly heavy. Delvin reflexively glanced at the return address. It had been sent from another part of town. Holcombe Road. The name was written in chicken scratch, but he made out the letters that formed the word Walsh. There was only one Walsh left in town, Logan Walsh, and Delvin had seen him at the rally, standing right behind Lula and Mitch. For years, he’d heard talk that the Walsh boy had murdered his father. He didn’t doubt it. Delvin could tell just looking at Logan that the kid wasn’t right. He reminded Delvin of a few guys he’d known in the army—quiet types who seemed perfectly sane until they started talking. Then it would become clear that their reality wasn’t one you could recognize. Their earth was flat and run by a shadowy cabal. They always assumed they were under surveillance. Any mark was a symbol and every symbol had a secret meaning. There was a reason for their every action, however bizarre it seemed. Just like there was a reason Logan Walsh had driven three miles out of the way to mail a priority package to a Nazi who lived less than two miles from his house.
Delvin handled the package a little more gingerly. Lord only knew what was in it. He approached the Dugan house with equal care. He’d spent enough time in war zones to know when he’d crossed into dangerous territory. Sure enough, when he reached the front steps, the door opened. Nathan Dugan was standing there, watching Delvin come toward him. He kept his right arm bent at the elbow and his hand hidden behind his back. Dugan had a gun, and he wanted his postman to know it. His thin, colorless lips remained pressed together. Delvin held out the package, and Dugan refused to take it. His eyes flicked down to the floor, as though ordering the postman to set the box at his feet. Delvin laughed and placed it six feet away on the porch banister instead. He caught the sound of a gun barrel sliding out of a holster.
“You sure you want to commit a federal offense this morning, Herr Dugan?” Delvin asked. Dugan didn’t respond. “Guess not. Enjoy your day, now,” he told the Nazi and chuckled all the way back to the sidewalk.
He was delivering a package to the folks across the street when he saw Nathan Dugan hustle out of his house with an army surplus duffel bag, which he tossed into the bed of his truck. Then he wheeled his trash can out of the garage and to the curb—even though pickup wasn’t till the next morning. Within thirty seconds, Nathan Dugan had hopped in his truck and sped off. Delvin had a hunch that he wouldn’t be back.
He finished his deliveries on the cul-de-sac and headed back the way he’d come. Along the way, he chugged the last of the Gatorade he’d brought with him. When he reached Nathan Dugan’s trash can, he opened it up and made a show of tossing the bottle inside. Lying on top of the other trash was the box he’d just delivered. It had been emptied and its contents tossed into the can as well. Delvin recognized SS lightning bolts. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. Then his gut told him that wasn’t enough, and he grabbed the box and the two flags that had been folded up inside.
“Ain’t nothing illegal about owning a flag,” Sheriff Bradley told Delvin when he called. “Ain’t nothing illegal about sending one through the mail, either.” Bradley was a good old boy through and through, but he wasn’t stupid. If he was acting dense, he was doing it on purpose.
“I know,” Delvin told him. “But something feels wrong about this. Dugan gets two flags in the mail, and then he takes off like a bat outta hell?”
“Mighta just gone to the Piggly Wiggly for all we know,” said the sheriff. “What were you doing rifling through a man’s trash, anyways? Betcha that’s illegal if we’re looking for crimes to pin on people.”
“Look all you want,” Delvin said. “I know the law. Once trash is left at the curb, it’s public property. Listen, I realize you don’t give a damn about Nazi flags. But something spooked Dugan bad just now. I’d look into it if I were you.”
“But you’re not me, thank goodness. A sheriff can’t go around harassing people for owning flags. Just relax, Mr. Crump. No need to act paranoid. Nathan will be back home by the time you deliver his mail tomorrow morning.”
Nathan. Of course.
When the working day ended at five o’clock, Delvin drove past the address on Holcombe Road. The house was hidden deep in the woods and the drive was posted. Delvin pulled off the road across from the entrance. His gut was screaming louder than ever that something was wrong. It was the same gut that had kept Delvin alive in Afghanistan, and he’d learned to listen when it spoke to him. The first thing it had taught him was the most lethal creatures on earth were young men with a few bad ideas and nothing to lose. Overseas, Delvin had faced his share of them. Some, but not all, had been Afghans. He’d stared back at one in the mirror every morning.
When Delvin turned eighteen, the army was where young men went when there was nowhere else to go. Some of his fellow soldiers had run away—from abusive homes, bad neighborhoods, poverty and the hopelessness that came with it. A couple kids he knew had come to the forces to find a fight. But most were like Delvin—flailing and lost. The army promised structure and a steady paycheck. Still, Delvin had delayed, spending two full years after high school drinking beer and working dead-end jobs. Then came 9/11, and the recruiters were selling not only escape but a righteous fight. For Delvin, that proved an irresistible combination.
He spent the following years watching boys like him die. Blown up, ambushed, murdered by strangers—or shot by their own hand. He ended the lives of five Afghan fighters. Then one day he realized the war meant nothing to him. He didn’t believe in the cause. The Afghans weren’t his enemies. The battles that needed to be fought were all back home.
It wasn’t until he married Wanda that he finally felt like he was where he needed to be. But Delvin had never forgotten what it was like to be lost, and he knew just how easy it would have been for someone to lead him astray.
A truck pulled off the road behind him. Jeb Sweeney slid out of the driver’s seat. Well over six feet and dressed in army surplus pants, a white T-shirt, and a Braves hat, he looked like a G.I. Joe figure on leave. Delvin didn’t know the veterinarian very well, and to be honest, he looked a lot like a man Delvin would rather avoid. But he’d seen Jeb at the CPC’s press conferences, holding up signs that made it perfectly clear what he thought of Lula Dean.
Jeb laid a hand on the Jeep’s window frame. “Howdy, Mr. Postman,” he said. “What brings you out this way?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Doctor,” Delvin responded.
Jeb glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been concerned about the young man who lives up that drive. I feel like I should pay him a visit, but he’s got the property under surveillance and he may not be interested in receiving visitors.”
“You think he’s dangerous?”
“Yeah,” Jeb said. “I do.”
Delvin felt a wave of relief. He wasn’t the only one. “What tipped you off?”
“He brought me here for a house call a while back. His style of decorating was... well, let’s just say it was pretty fucked up. Then I had an exchange with him after Lula Dean’s rally. He was agitated and angry. Seemed real upset that Mitch had called me to pick him up. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on the kid since then. Followed him to the post office, but that’s the only place he’s been.”
“He sent Nathan Dugan a box of Nazi flags this morning.”
“SS and Gestapo?” Jeb asked, and Delvin nodded. “See, that’s a bad fucking sign right there. He’s getting rid of prized possessions. He had them in a display case in his den. Along with an arsenal that could take out an army. How’d you find out about the flags?”
“Dugan sped off in his truck as soon as he opened the box. Dumped everything in the trash as he left. I pulled it out.”
Jeb bowed his head for a moment then looked up at the trees. “Fuck. Dugan knows something’s coming. He doesn’t want to stop it, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere near when it happens.”
“My thought exactly. I tried warning the sheriff—”
“You mean Nathan’s second cousin?”
Delvin shook his head at his own stupidity. “Shit.”
Jeb chuckled darkly. “Don’t give yourself a hard time. As I think we’ve all learned in recent days, the family trees around here are as tangled as a box of Christmas lights.”
“So it’s up to us to stop him? I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on how to do that?” Delvin asked.
“Well, I doubt he’s going to take action tonight. My guess is Logan’s prepping for that party Beverly Underwood and the Wrights are throwing. But I’d love to be able to keep a closer eye on him if I could. I got these cameras I use to monitor the feral hogs in my orchard. If I could plant a couple of those up near his house, we would know when he’s fixing to make a move. Only problem is, he’s not too happy with me right now. And the way things are headed, if he spots someone coming up the drive that he don’t want to see, he’s liable to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Delvin knew Wanda would murder him herself if she heard what he was about to say. “How long do you need to position the cameras?”
“Three minutes,” Jeb told him.
“I can give you that,” Delvin told him. “Jump in the back. That’s the thing about the USPS. Even Nazis need their mail.”
“You know what kind of person we’re dealing with?” Jeb asked. “I saw a target with Obama’s face on it last time I visited. He’s not exactly going to welcome either of us with open arms.”
Delvin almost laughed. “He’s got plenty of company round here. And I deliver the mail to all of them.”
Logan Walsh was naked aside from a pair of novelty boxer shorts with little red lobsters on a sea of navy blue. Judging by his rumpled hair and bleary eyes, he’d just dragged himself out of bed. He looked so young, Delvin thought. Not much older than the boys he’d met at boot camp and not a single hair on his chest.
“Hey,” Logan said. Just that. Hey. Like they were just two regular people who had no reason to hate each other.
Delvin, halfway out of the Jeep, froze at the sight of the gun in the younger man’s hand.
Logan glanced down at the gun. “Oh, sorry,” he told Delvin. “I just got an alert that someone was coming up the drive. Didn’t know it was you.”
“That’s all right,” the postman said. “But I do come bearing bad news, so don’t shoot the messenger. We had a package get mangled in the sorter this morning. Couldn’t read anything but the return address, which turned out to be yours. Thought I’d bring it up and see if we can get it where it needs to go.”
He handed Logan a mangled piece of box and the two flags that had been inside.
“Shit,” Logan said. “Y’all really fucked this one up, didn’t you?”
“We did. But I don’t believe the contents were harmed. If you can write down the right address for me, I’ll put it in a brand-new priority box and make sure it gets out this evening.”
“Evening?” Logan looked up at the sky and yawned. “Okay,” he said. “Pretty sure I have a box in the office. Come in. I’ll get it all packed up for ya.”
Delvin hadn’t expected to be invited inside. He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder at the Jeep, but he sure hoped Jeb was watching.
At some point in the past, it had been a very nice house. Now it resembled the den of a dying beast. The wood floors were hidden beneath mud, filthy clothes, and random detritus. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and the light fixtures had all been shot out.
“Sorry ’bout the mess,” Logan said. He walked through the mess in his bare feet.
“I’ve seen worse,” Delvin told him. A kid he’d known in the army had lost it one night and destroyed the barracks. No one had tried to stop him. No one wanted to. Most had felt the same urge at one time or another. That’s why they locked the soldiers’ guns away every night.
He and Logan reached a room with a desk in the center and ammunition cases lining the walls. Aside from a few guns, the cases had been emptied. Several large army-issue duffel bags had been stuffed to capacity. There was little doubt what was packed inside them.
A hand-drawn map of Jackson Square had been pinned to the wall behind the desk. Symbols indicated an entry point, targets, and an exit. On the desk was a copy of TheCatcher in the Rye.
“You read that?” Delvin asked as Logan grabbed an empty box off the floor.
“Naw,” Logan told him. “I got it out of Lula Dean’s library. Had a different cover on it. Was supposed to be the book by that senator—Manhood. What about you? You read The Catcher in the Rye? It’s supposed to be famous, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Delvin said. “You might like it. The hero’s a young man who’s lost in life. A lot of us feel that way at one point or another. Most of us end up finding our way.”
“I’m not a big reader.” Logan spread out the SS flag before folding it into a square.
“More of a history buff, I guess?” Delvin asked. “Were the flags part of a collection?”
“Not really,” Logan said. “I bought them to make a friend happy, but he says he’s done with me, so I’m sending them to him.”
There was no emotion in Logan’s voice. Not a quiver or a hint of anger. Delvin knew what men looked like when they’ve been broken. Just do what you’re here to do, Delvin ordered himself. Give Jeb enough time to get the cameras in place. Do not get involved.
“Is the friend Nathan Dugan?” Why the fuck had he gone and done that?
Logan looked up.
“He’s not the man you think he is,” Delvin told him. “He’s a coward who can’t feel big unless others feel small. Someone like that doesn’t deserve your respect.”
“I know,” Logan said bluntly. “Nobody does.”
“Nobody?”
“People are never who they pretend to be. Everybody thought my daddy was righteous. Judge Walsh is such a good man, they’d say. Such a friend of law and order. We’re so lucky to have him on the bench. They never saw who he really was.”
“Who was he?”
“A pig,” Logan said. “A filthy disgusting pig who deserved what he got.” His voice cracked and Delvin knew he’d broken through. He couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or not.
“I can sense you’ve been through some serious shit,” Delvin said. “You need someone to talk to.”
“I had someone,” Logan said. “He told me I’m a loser. I pulled a gun at the rally and let Mitch Sweeney get away. Now he says he doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. Says my father was right and I’m totally useless.”
“Nathan Dugan is not the person you should be consulting. Maybe we could find you someone who is trained to talk to people in crisis.”
Logan looked like he was having trouble making sense of it all. “Why would you want to help me?”
“Because I knew guys like you in the army. They saw too much and they needed help before they hurt themselves or others.”
Before he could stop them, his eyes landed on the map of Jackson Square. His host noticed, and it broke the spell. Logan picked the gun up off the desk.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Postman. I believe you mean well, but I can’t let you leave now.”
“Logan.” Delvin tried to keep his voice flat and calm. “I have children who need me.”
“They’ll survive without a father,” Logan said. “I did.”
“Did you?” Delvin asked.
“Put the gun down, Logan.”
Delvin’s head swiveled toward the voice. Jeb had just come around the corner with a pistol in his hand.
“Well, well. Look who’s here.” Logan’s face crumpled, and his lower lip trembled as he spoke. “If it isn’t Jeb Sweeney, the fakest motherfucker around. You know I used to pray every night that you were my dad? Then Hollis pulled me out of Little League. Took away the only thing I was ever good at. I thought for sure you’d come save me. But you never asked why I was gone or bothered to come check on me. Do you have any fucking idea what I had to live with?”
“I didn’t know—” Jeb said.
“Fuck you.”
Logan took aim and pulled the trigger.