Cameras in the Trees

There were cameras in the trees. There shouldn’t have been; this was frontier, miles from anything. The hiker stared up at one as its mechanical pupil stared right back. She shrugged, and continued walking through the forest.

The billionaire made his own coffee, unlike most other members of his tax bracket. He also cooked his own meals, made his own bed, and scrubbed his own toilet. Nelson Martin detested the rich, always had. Becoming rich himself hadn’t changed that. He scoffed at the prospect of hiring help, and sneered at the idea of thinking he was better than anyone. He hated his peers. Occasionally an invitation to a yacht party or talk show would come in the mail, which he checked himself; He always lit them on fire.

He walked to the mailbox as he drank his coffee, .357 magnum revolver on his hip in case any punk decided to try something. He refused to hire bodyguards, despite the pleas of relatives and board members. He could take care of himself, he told them. The revolver was on him all the time, even inside his own home.

A package was sitting on top of the mailbox. It was wrapped in brown paper. Martin eyed it curiously, trying to remember if he’d been expecting anything. After a few seconds, he knew for sure that he hadn’t been. He approached it carefully and read the label. It was addressed to him, with no return address. Without hesitation, he retreated to what he thought was a safe distance and drew his revolver. He shot the package, and it exploded, blowing his mailbox to hell and throwing shrapnel in all directions. A couple of fragments of brick and metal caught him in the face, and he ran into the house cursing and bleeding.

Nelson Martin sat on his porch, sipping whiskey and fingering the bloody bandages on his face. Nobody knew about the incident but him. His neighbors, miles away, probably heard the boom, but they heard lots of booms reverberating off the mountains. Explosions were not uncommon in rural Colorado.

Who had done this to him? Who had he pissed off to the point of trying to blow him up? He didn’t know, but he intended to find out. For a few moments, after cleaning his wounds, he’d considered calling the police, but trashed the idea almost immediately. He’d deal with this himself, he decided. But first, he had to fix his mailbox.

The little man sat crouched over the radio in his tiny cabin, waiting for the reporter to mention the death of a certain corporate giant’s CEO. He waited for hours. Hours longer than it should have taken for the news to get the story, but no mention ever came.

The angry little fellow scratched his chin, and wondered what might have gone wrong. He went to bed frustrated, going back through his memory to see where he might have misplaced a component or forgotten to arm a switch. He’d worked meticulously for weeks to ensure success, and he didn’t understand how his plan had failed. No matter, he thought. There’s always next time.

Nelson Martin laid the bricks carefully, focused on his work. Work. He had always enjoyed it, the way his mind narrowed down to a tiny slit, allowing him to see only in terms of what needed to be done, and how to do it.

He was glad the punk had destroyed his mailbox. After an hour or two of hard labor, it was clear that his new one would be more attractive than the one that had exploded. It was an exceptionally hot day in Colorado, where the elevation usually kept the temperature comfortable even in the middle of summer. Martin wore plaid pajama pants with no shirt or shoes, the toolbelt around his waist holding the weight of his revolver in addition to the various odds-and-ends needed to repair the mailbox.

The mail truck came around the corner, and the commotion caused Martin to flinch and instinctively reach for his gun. He relaxed and smiled to himself when he saw who it was, and raised a hand in greeting. The mailman was one of the few people Martin saw regularly, and the two got along well.

“The hell’s this?” the mailman said as he exited the truck with a handful of envelopes and nowhere to put them.

“Ah, just some punks. Say, Billy, be careful with any packages you get with my name on them. Just handle them with care. I’m, uh… expecting something fragile. Real expensive. Antiques.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the mailman said, handing Martin the envelopes. “You need any help? I’ll be off within the hour. Hate to come back tomorrow and find your old ass laying here passed out or dead.”

“You know I can’t be killed, Billy. I’ll be damned if I croak working in my own yard,” Martin replied, grinning.

“Alright, alright. The hell happened to your face, man?”

“...Cut myself shaving.”

“Hmm. Alright, Nelson. See you around.”

Billy the mailman climbed back into his truck, wondering just what in the hell was going on with Nelson Martin.

The bomber was in his car, on his way to break the first rule of being a criminal: never return to the scene of the crime.

He couldn’t help himself, though. Sleeping and eating had become impossible, and the question of how the billionaire had escaped the blast gnawed at him constantly. He had to see for himself… then he would go from there.

He rounded the corner, adrenaline flowing so freely that his hands trembled. The house was up ahead on the left. The bomber looked at the idyllic home with disgust. Never mind that it was modest for a man with a bank account the size of Martin’s, it was still too damned big. The beautiful backdrop, a peak tall enough to have snow on top in July, made it even worse.

Everything looked quiet. There was nothing out of the ordinary, no craters in the front yard or billionaire body parts scattered around. This was unacceptable to the bomber. He pulled over and rolled down his window, no longer in control of himself. After a few seconds, he pulled off and headed home. He had work to do.

Nelson Martin stared down at his notepad, reading the license plate number over and over again. He’d seen the punk out the window, staring at his house. There was no doubt that he was the one that had done it. Martin picked up the phone and dialed an old friend that owed him one.

“Jim,” he said. “It’s Nelson.”

“Martin?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m calling in that favor. I need a license plate number tracked. And don’t give me any excuses, I know you CIA boys can do anything you damn well please.”

A top-secret piece of satellite technology had located the car in Rocky Mountain National Forest, a half-hour from Nelson’s home. He’d thanked his old friend and asked him how the kids were doing before hanging up and heading out. The road turned into a trail about a mile from the signal, and Martin had to stop twice to snip padlocks off of gates with his bolt cutters. He noticed a camera in the trees, watching him. He shot it.

Finally, he saw a little cabin through the woods, and he decided to approach on foot. He left his GPS in the car and made sure his revolver was loaded, then stepped into the forest. He couldn’t hear anything, but he saw the car parked beside the building. He was betting the bomber was home.

He knocked on the door.

“Uh, who is it?”

“I’m lost. Just need some water and directions.”

Inside, the bomber tried to think quickly. He’d been taking a nap, and his mind was foggy. What were the chances it was actually a lost hiker?

“Please, I just need some water, I’ve been out here for days,” Martin called.

“Okay, okay, one second.”

The bomber cracked open the door and held a jug out to Martin.

“Why’d you blow up my mailbox, punk?”

The bomber’s heart leaped, and he opened his mouth to speak. He was cut off by the report of Martin’s revolver as he shot him in the face, however.

Martin walked back to his car and drove home to smoke a cigar.