Sierra Traveler

By Rick Lawin

Former police aviator, Jake Cahill, and family are happily ensconced on his late parent’s legacy Sierra ranch, Tierra del Puma, Land of the Cougar. Life bustles for Jake, Valerie, and daughter Sarah. But then a private investigator arrives at the ranch seeking to rent a secluded cabin and making a request. She asks Jake’s friend, retired FBI agent Mark Kincaid, to assist her with a small innocuous case she has pending. Suddenly, Mark finds himself treading ever so lightly through a series of events that swirl around an influential pastor and his ministry. Suspicions abound as to what hides beneath that spiritual umbrella. Jake unexpectedly finds himself embroiled in the mystery when he discovers something decidedly unusual that lies over the fence line of Tierra del Puma. Vague and twisting clues ultimately lead to a confrontation where confessions can be deadly. Meanwhile, Valerie must reconcile a new reality and the weight of a decision to tell her family. And, within the Sierra breeze, The Legend of Tierra del Puma will reveal itself to a stranger who must fulfill an obligation that could make the difference between life and death. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Aug 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977268273

Rick Lawin

Rick Lawin spent over 25 years on the Los Angeles Police Department and was assigned to the Air Support Division as a pilot and instructor in both fixed and rotary wing aircraft. Rick also worked as a charter and news pilot. He is rated in helicopters, multi-engine airplanes, seaplanes, and gliders. Rick holds a masters’ degree in Aeronautical Science and spent 22 years teaching aviation safety at a major university. He resides in Northern California, close to the High Sierra.

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CHAPTER 1

1800’s

OCTOBER SKIES

NEAR DONNER SUMMIT

Harry Sturbridge folded his arms across his chest and, with a grim-faced expression, watched the activity several hundred feet below. Beneath his rocky perch, railway cars were being nudged closer to the tunnel entrance. At nearly six feet tall, Sturbridge was dressed in heavy jeans and a flannel shirt with a soiled coat. The Superintendent of Railway Construction sported an unkempt beard and a head of thick, tangled black hair squashed beneath a well-worn, brim hat. He was a gruff man, given to rough, profane talk. Harry Sturbridge had but one mission—pushing the railroad east through the daunting Sierra Nevada. Now, one obstacle stood in the way before the Central Pacific Railroad could best the mountains and continue the track eastward. Donner Summit, at over 7000 feet, was the final barrier that would require tunneling through 1600 feet of solid granite. No tunnel meant no eastbound track, which meant no government subsidy. Winter was biting in the mountain air. Time was running out as the Central Pacific Railroad was stuck in the Sierra and the competition, the Union Pacific, was laying miles of track each day, racing westward towards Utah. It was a contemptuous race between two rival companies to build the first transcontinental railroad. Fortunes would be made or lost depending on the amount of track laid by each company. Sturbridge had no intention of losing the race, and neither did his bosses. The tough-minded, tenacious businessmen—Crocker, Stanford, Huntington, and Hopkins—refused to let unruly men, bad weather, steep canyons, wild rivers, and towering mountains delay the construction of the railroad eastward from Sacramento. But now, after cutting tracks through the Sierra, the Central Pacific was stuck at the summit, confronted by solid granite that refused to become Tunnel 6.

Chiseling a tunnel was slow, grueling, back-breaking work. Laborers using hand tools and black powder carved just inches a day out of the unyielding rock. Sturbridge watched dozens of Chinese workers, dressed in their heavy coats and large hats, patiently chisel away at the mountain. Even from a distance, Sturbridge could hear the steady ring of hammers upon iron chisels banging against the hard granite. At this rate, Sturbridge thought, it would take two years to break through the rock. The Chinamen, with their strange mannerisms, were, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, exceptional workers. The Central Pacific paid them a lot less than the Irishmen who worked the line. The Irish had strong backs, and many were veterans of the civil war. The problem was that many caught the gold fever and took off to the mines, or sometimes they got too drunk to work the rails. The Chinamen rarely got sick. They were hard laborers, like ants teaming over the area, precariously carving out trackback from mountain ledges and cliffs or building the necessary rock wall embankments.

Jack Nowell, one of Sturbridge’s foremen, came up from behind. The two men silently nodded, and then Sturbridge pointed and spoke. Those Celestials are hard workin’, but it’s not enough. The chisels and that black powder ain’t gettin’ us through the mountain. Sturbridge, like other men, used the term Celestial, inferring that the imported Chinamen, with their odd language and pigtails, were from a so-called Celestial Empire that existed behind the Great Wall of China.

Nowell pointed at two railcars parked at the end-of-track. We got more supplies and that special stuff called nitroglycerin. Mr. Crocker said it’s better than black power. Will blow out the granite faster.

Both men watched as several Chinese laborers approached the boxcar and unloaded the supplies. Nowell pointed to a man not carrying anything except a small satchel. Who the hell is that? He ain’t carrying nothin’ but that bag. Somebody needs to kick his butt and get him workin’.

He don’t do labor, said Sturbridge. He’s some kind of Chinese doctor. Sort of a mystic medicine man, according to the Celestials. I don’t reckon to know anything about the old boy ‘ceptin’ he comes and goes. Sometimes disappears into the Sierra for days. They say he’s lookin’ for some special plant to make medicine.

Nowell shook his head while spitting out a wad of chew, watching the old man shuffle off and disappear down the steep hill. I say good whiskey, meat, and beans makes good medicine, not a bunch of plants and seeds. Don’t understand them Chinamen.

Sturbridge noticed one of the boxcars starting to slowly roll towards another car. What damn, drunk fool didn’t set the brake on that car?

Just then, the boxcar hit the freight car containing the nitroglycerin bottles. There was a deafening explosion that echoed over the Sierra. The powerful blast knocked both men down. Rocks, dust, railcar debris, and various body parts rained down. Sturbridge slowly stood and then helped Nowell to his feet. Both men were stunned, ears still ringing as they wiped thick dust off of their faces.

Sturbridge looked down towards the entrance to Tunnel 6. It was utter carnage. Men were screaming, parts of their limbs missing. Dead and disfigured bodies lay strewn everywhere. Sturbridge, Nowell, and the few laborers still left in one piece worked their way down to the explosion site.

Sturbridge turned to Nowell. God Almighty, that nitro went off. I told Crocker that stuff is too damn dangerous to be transported. It’s gotta be mixed here—not in Sacramento. What a bloody mess. He stepped over the bodies of broken men and stared at the entrance to the smoke-filled tunnel thinking, Now what? I got no men to finish the job. Sturbridge yelled to Nowell, Get down the track to the telegraph wire. Tell the Dutch Flats station what happened. Tell ‘em we need a lot more Chinamen or this tunnel ain’t gonna get finished for years. He stepped over a Chinese laborer, ignoring the man’s painful moans and stared into the opening of Tunnel 6. Sturbridge shook his head in frustration. Another goddamn delay.

CHAPTER 2

PRESENT DAY

TIERRA DEL PUMA

The traveler walked slowly and methodically, keeping an even pace rather than going up or down the mountain. He was a master at trekking effectiveness, having spent over a half a century tramping the Sierra. Over those years, he hiked alone, a soloist who took solace in the naturalness of the mountains. He was thin but not gaunt. His body, like his face, showed a remarkable agelessness for a man in his 60’s. He was hardy, vigorous, and on a mission. Compared to the contemporary hiker, his gear was indeed retro. He wore wool pants and flannel shirt. A bamboo coolie hat gave him complete protection from the sun. His sandals and well-worn canvas daypack were ancient by today’s standard. However, his seemingly antiquated apparel was offset by the contents in the pack. In addition to the basic hiking accouterments, the man carried a tiny laboratory of bottles and small tools. In his hand was an old, time-worn leather notebook that he frequently referred to. The journal’s pages were filled with faded symbols of a distant language that he hoped would yield instructions and directions. It had taken years to decipher and understand the coded inscriptions, but patience was in the man’s genes, as well as a legacy of knowledge concerning ancient legends and medicines. History and folklores, he knew, could reveal secrets if one carefully listened and studied. Today, after years of intense research, the man hoped to reap the bounty of a tireless, half-century endeavor.

The traveler stopped and again consulted the old leather book with its yellow, brittle pages. He glanced up trail, squinting against the brilliance of the Sierra sun. The mountains, except for the tall, jagged peak which lay ahead, were covered in heavy forest, and crisscrossed by a myriad of ravines, gullies, and streams. Before him lay a steep slope of rocky talus. His slender finger traced the lines and drawing on the page. It must be, he thought. Nature’s work, despite two centuries of time and weathering, still matched the illustration and notes of elevation, topography, and soils. More importantly, the slope angle, the dark volcanic rocks, and the cave opening were landmarks meticulously described in the journal. The traveler sensed a discovery was forthcoming.

He began the arduous slow climb through the tarn of rocks and boulders while listening to the chatter of marmots. The furry creatures seemed to be expressing their displeasure at his trespassing upon their homes. The noisy marmots suddenly went silent. The man cocked his head and listened and then felt the slight breeze the mountain had collected and funneled down the steep slope. As a student of legends, particularly this one, he knew what would occur next. It would be no illusion.

The mountain lion sat perched on a boulder some distance above him. The large puma, with laser like crystal blue eyes, simply stared at the hiker. It exhibited no hostility, hunched position of attack, or twitching of its long tail. It simply watched. The traveler was neither scared nor surprised by the lion’s appearance. He knew the puma was protocol—the gatekeeper. Like the ancient sway of other legends with tigers, this American lion was a symbol of courage and honor. Within a minute, the puma vanished. The winds that tumbled down from the mountain were interlaced with murmurs of voices, whose spirts, the man knew, resided in the mountain peak above him. Without speaking, the traveler connected with the whispers, understanding that his given privilege of access came with a promise of reciprocity.

The traveler walked a few steps further when the color caught his eye. They were here! Nestled between the rocks was a small patch of flowers, each no bigger than a tiny orchid. The pedals radiated a sparkling brilliance of blue—incredibly rare in nature’s world of flowers. The man knelt and gently touched them. There were very few; only four flowers had spouted. It was a miracle within a legend, he thought. They had survived a journey of thousands of miles and been carried by the Sierra winds. This flower it was said, no longer existed. Like so many species of flora and fauna, extinction by man was inevitable. He knew that it was no accident the small flowers landed here and germinated. It was of course, to be expected—it was legend.

He clipped two of the flowers, leaving the other two. He gently placed the petals into a green bottle and mixed them with the journal’s other prescribed ingredients. While watching the petals dissolve, he looked around at the mountain scenery and thought about its haunting history. His lineage had given him a gift to hear and translate the winds of antiquity. To him, this legend was neither distinct nor exceptional. He knew it’s past. This mysterious land had been given a name by the Native Americans. Well, he thought, those people really couldn’t claim proprietary rights to this folklore. It’s true originality came thousands of years ago and thousands of miles away. A change of countryside and culture had slightly altered the story. However, these whispers in the wind were indeed unique, an added embroidery upon the quilt of an ancient legend. Within that quilt were words spoken by the spirits of the young pioneer girls, who 175 years past, became lost and entombed in the mountain cave near the summit and was now guarded by the puma. Hearing those voices, the traveler confirmed to himself the veracity of this legend. His ability of interpretation was granted to him, at least for the moment. He pondered who else might have been gifted such favored conversations.

The flower petals successfully dissolved into his concoction. He took a quick whiff of the potion, smiled, and then sealed the bottle. It was time to go. The traveler cast a final glimpse toward the mountain peak. He silently acknowledged the whispers in the wind, aware that like the puma, they were part of Tierra del Puma, Land of the Cougar. He made clear of the slope and walked away hearing the chattering marmots. The traveler wondered how and when he would be beckoned to honor a promise.

CHAPTER 3

WEEKS LATER

LATE NIGHT

A-STAR MINISTRY WAREHOUSE

ROSEVILLE, CA

The gusty wind rattled the metal corrugated door that reverberated through the cavernous warehouse. Inside the semi-darkened building, sitting at a small desk with his feet propped up, 25-year-old Benny Carson took another puff from his cigarette and tried in vain to blow a perfect smoke ring—a sign of total boredom. Hired by the Ministry to do night clean-up and security, Carson lacked the inclination for either task. Most nights, he did a quick broom down of the aisles of drill presses, lathes, and other tools that Carson thought were more appropriate for a machine shop, not some ministry warehouse. Occasionally, he would energize himself to stroll to the rear of the warehouse and rattle the lock on the separate storage vault. He held a limited curiosity about what was stored in the secured area. Munson, his buddy and other warehouse custodian who called in sick tonight, fucked up on drugs and drunk, thought Carson, said it was probably stolen religious artifacts.

That’s why the stuff arrives late at night through the back door in unmarked boxes, Munson had said.

Probably bullshit, typical of Munson with his dumb ass ideas on things. Carson’s meandering thoughts and failed attempt at smoke rings were interrupted with banging on the rear warehouse door.

Carson stood and walked back to the warehouse roll-up door, thinking the wind and pelting rain had knocked something loose and banging on the metal. He looked through the peep hole on the door next to the freight access and saw a non-descript white van. A man stood at the door pounding and yelling. Open the fucking door; I’m drowning in this rain. The goddamn access code isn’t working.

One of those late-night secret deliveries, thought Carson, with the so-called stolen artifacts. Carson opened the door as the wind nearly yanked it from his hand. The man entered and wiped the rain off his dirty face. Jesus, what a storm. He looked around. Where’s the other guy? Aren’t there supposed be two watchmen?

Called in sick, man—I’m it.

Aw crap, that’s just my luck, said the man as water dribbled off his nose. Look, my guy called in sick, as well. I need help unloading this stuff into the vault.

Not my business, man. I was told to just open and close the door, said Carson, not interested in doing any heavy lifting.

The man, about Carson’s age, pushed his long, wet hair from his face. Look dude, my guy is sick. I can’t muscle these boxes alone. My boss is a prick and expects this load to be delivered and secured. I’ll get into some serious shit if I don’t do the job.

Yeah, and my boss, the Reverend Ray Dixon, along with his bitch secretary and that other office jerk, made it clear that I just open and close the door and not get involved in your freight delivery business, said Benny Carson.

The man reached in his pocket and pulled out two, hundred-dollar bills. Here, he said in an anxious voice. Just help me move the boxes. I need to get outta here—like now. I’m behind schedule with this rain.

Carson looked at the money and then recalled that the security system was switched off and the back camera was broken. He grabbed the money. Okay, make it quick. He turned and opened the roll up freight door.

The man jumped into the driver’s seat and backed the van into the warehouse. He then walked over to the storage area, pulled out a set of keys, and opened the metal door. He walked back to the van and opened the rear doors. Okay, man, earn your bucks and help me move these crates. In ten minutes of lifting and grunting, the men moved several dozen unmarked, locked, long green wood and metal containers into the secure storage area. The man secured the storage vault and then hustled back to the van. I’m gone. Keep your mouth shut. Another gust of wind blew through the warehouse just as the man jumped back into the cab. Coffee cups and papers blew out of the van as the man quickly sped away.

Carson closed the warehouse door, now two hundred bucks richer. He noticed the coffee cups, empty chip bags, and crumpled papers that littered the warehouse floor. With an unusual burst of work ethic, mostly to avoid the wrath of some uppity ministry staff jerk, he stooped down and started picking up the trash that had blown out of the van. A paper blew across the floor. He ran over and stepped on it. He picked up the yellow sheet with printing on it. He read it and then read it again as he looked over at the locked storage area. The rusty wheels in his brain started to grind. Benny Carson’s capacity for logic was limited, like his desire for manual labor. But now, staring at the document, he saw an opportunity to elevate his income without pushing a broom. Carson picked up his cell and called his warehouse ‘associate’. Munson answered the phone with a groggy, drugged-out voice. ‘Yeah, why the fuck are you calling me so late?"

Carson replied. You ain’t gonna believe what’s in the Ministry warehouse vault. I got an idea. You and I are going to make some coin and not have to work here anymore.

The next day, Benny Carson called the A-Star Ministry, wanting to talk to Reverend Dixon. It’s very personal, totally private, he said. He finally connected with an interested staff member. Carson explained what he had seen and found. The staff member remained suspect, so he read off some of the items on the document. So, the deal is that the Reverend can buy it back and save his ass, said Carson, nervously waiting for a response.

The staff member asked how much the document and silence would cost. Carson tossed out a number. A deal was possible said the staffer, in a low tone—to protect the Ministry. The staffer then gave Carson the details: bring the original document for verification. No end-around plays, no duplicate copies floating around. The staffer was cold and threatening, saying the Reverend would not be blackmailed at a later date. A meet was agreed upon, far from the local haunts, no parks, nothing even close to the Ministry.

Benny Carson clicked off his cell, feeling like he held command over the negotiations. The designated meeting place worked perfect, thought Carson. After the deal, he and Munson were on to Reno and not looking back at warehouse brooms and mops.

CHAPTER 4

AFTER MIDNIGHT

PROSSER RESERVOIR CAMPGROUND

TRUCKEE, CA

Benny Carson and Munson sat in Carson’s small, badly banged-up aging Toyota pick-up. Munson, dressed in dirty jeans and a hoodie, scanned the dark campground through drunken eyes. Carson nervously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He glanced at his cell phone. Okay, its near two a.m. The contact should be here. He peered out the open window into the inky blackness of the night. It’s fuckin dark. Can’t see anything, no car, no nothin’.

Munson wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, growing uncomfortable sitting in the vacant, dark mountain campground. You sure this is the real deal? he asked, picking a piece of tobacco off his tongue and wiping it on the seat.

Trust me. We got the leverage, and they want it back, said Carson with a false bravado voice. He waved the invoice in the air. This will make Reverend Dixon’s balls sweat. Our contact really got nervous and wanted a meet right away. This is primo stuff, and they know it. Good enough to swap twenty-five thousand bucks for.

Yeah, I made an extra just in case, said Munson, pulling a photocopy of the invoice out of his jeans. Just in case.

Carson’s eyes widened with disbelief. Fuck man, you should have left that back in your car. Not here, you dumb shit. That’s insurance!

Not to worry, he said, pulling out his semi-automatic gun. This is even better insurance.

A muted pop broke the night stillness. Munson jumped in surprise and then looked over and saw Benny Carson slumped over the wheel, bleeding from what was left of his eye socket. Oh fu… Another pop. Munson’s head snapped back as the bullet entered his forehead. Both men were dead.

Within a minute, a hooded figure appeared out of the darkness and cautiously approached the truck carrying a rifle. The stranger, dressed in all black clothes, gloves, mask and wearing night viewing goggles, opened the door of the truck and searched the bodies, removing the papers. After verifying the document, the veiled figure placed several plastic bags of pills on the front seat between the two dead men. In less than a minute, the shooter walked away, stopped for second as if to rub out a sudden cramp, and then disappeared like a ghost into the night.

CHAPTER 5

DAYS LATER

A-STAR MINISTRY

SACRAMENTO AREA

Reverend Raymond Dixon sat in front of the make-up mirror, a towel covering his shoulders. The make-up artist, a slender woman in her early 20’s with silky, long blonde hair, quietly went about her task of brushing on a final layer of cosmetics on the Reverend’s face. Before any TV or podcast sermon, it was her job to ensure that Reverend Dixon had the look of perfection. His wide, hazel eyes were accented by the large black pupils that radiated a penetrating stare. His dark brown eyebrows served to add a mysterious aura to the Reverend’s countenance. Ray Dixon learned early that it was the eyes, a careful movement of facial features, and his deep, smooth, spellbinding voice that could mesmerize people, attracting them into his spiritual web. Then once ensnared, he convinced them that only through using his guidance and portal to God could they mitigate despair and discover a happier life. A well coiffured head of light brown wavy hair added to the magnetic persona of Reverend Raymond Dixon—a master at the evangelical allure.

Dixon cast a furtive glance at the attractive woman now removing the towel off his shoulders. Her youthful innocence and tantalizing glow stirred his imagination. Reverend, if you’re happy with the make-up, then we’re done. Have a great sermon, said the young woman, placing her brushes and cotton dabs back on the table.

He gently touched her hand. Jennifer, would you like to go boating with me on Lake Tahoe? Dixon’s eyes stared directly into hers, causing her breath to catch.

She whispered, suddenly feeling a quicken pulse I would love that, Reverend.

Yes, so would I, just the two of us. He smiled and gently ran his hand along her leg. But for now, let us keep this invitation between us.

Captured by his mesmerizing voice and eyes, Jennifer smiled, Yes, sir.

Excellent, you may go. I need some quiet time to pray and prepare for the sermon. He gently patted her thigh. And remember, this will be our little secret. Dixon watched the awestruck young woman leave the room. He chuckled silently. This is so remarkably easy. Dixon leaned forward and studied himself in the mirror. He started to rub his chin and then quickly stopped, remembering the layers of make-up now skillfully applied to his face. The TV camera shots would be close-ups thus it was important for Dixon’s 47-year-old face to convey vitality and flawlessness.

Raymond Dixon eyed his image in the mirror that held a reflection of his historical fortunes and good luck. Here was a man with a masterful application of acting talent, manipulative personality, and the firm belief that being portrayed as an agent of God was the most powerful marketing tool in the world. And the Bible, in Raymond Dixon’s strategy, was an amazing handbook on how to succeed at business. For Reverend Dixon, the words, Seek and you shall Find had manifested into successes that differed from the actual Biblical meaning.

The former Ray Dixon started his life as a loser—a chubby little boy, with dark strange eyes that glowed with a penetrating intensity that seemed to match an unusually deep voice. Raised by his drunken father, who ran a business of stolen car parts and electronics, Ray learned that acquisitions of the nice things in life were gained through whatever means necessary as long you didn’t get caught. And having the Lord on your side was a likely harbinger to success.

Ray’s pathway to God began with homicide. It started out when a Hispanic kid caught Ray stalking his girlfriend, which resulted in Ray running away with a black eye and bloody lip. Later, Ray kept track of his assailant and one night laid in wait as the kid came out of a smoke shop and rounded the corner. Then, by surprise and a lead pipe, Ray bashed the kid’s head into a bloody pulp and ran. Over the next few weeks, he waited to be arrested. The cops never came. The murder was written