Book One - of the SHAMBALA Mystery Series - LUCKY TWO CROWS
Lucky Two Crows is an American Indian detective. He is a strong handsome thirty-six year old man, skilled in martial arts, horse riding, motorcycle racing, airplane flying and computer hacking. His office is in Portland, Oregon in the American Northwest. A wealthy Indian businessman named Clarence Two Moons hires Lucky to solve a murder mystery in Montana, and hopefully fall in love with his beautiful daughter Summer.
In Montana, Lucky finds out that Clarence is also living the life of a Blackfeet Indian Medicine Man in 1876, and Lucky is being watched by a powerful Blackfeet warrior, Two Crows, at that time, as is Summer by Two Crow’s wife White Feather. They are living parallel lives.
Lucky gets involved in the culture of his birth, and while solving the murder, he falls in love with Summer.
Thus begins the exciting adventures of Lucky Two Crows. After Montana, he embarks on a thrilling journey, which takes him to China, and the far reaches of the Himalayan mountains, to the lost paradise of Shambala. (and back to save the world)
After if we say goodbye.
The past will keep returning.
Last Saturday afternoon -- Lucky Two Crows:
As I sat in front of the blazing fire in my Pearl District apartment, I studied the turn of the 19th century brick walls.
Rain pitter-pattering on my tin roof summoned the image, the sounds, of sixty-five years of churning printing presses, previously occupying this room. The polished cement floor, a mosaic of spilt ink, was now covered with Navaho rugs from pow-wow weavers. The feathers on spears, drums holding lamps, and paintings of warriors and maidens, comforted me. I had planned a quick nap before going out. With the fire as the room's only light in the late afternoon darkness; a relaxing gloomy mellow calm before the storm, I closed my eyes and began to drift away . . .
I jumped, as my windows shook from a canon blast of thunder, splitting the sky above me. The pitter-patter made way to a heavy downpour pounding on my tin roof, questioning my resolve. Only a fool would venture out in this weather, into this torrential storm, which, according to reports, would last for days to come.
But I had to go. We had planned out this important reconnaissance mission. A scout was needed, and this was my last chance to go before Montana, where a murder waited to be solved.
I’m an American Indian. One hundred and fifty years ago, I wouldn't have considered the weather. If it was time to hunt, or steal horses from an enemy tribe, or as an Army scout, to do the will of a mad master, I would go without question. Men like me would stand strong against the driving rain, or a winter blizzard, because it was who we are - warriors. Today I‘m a twenty-first century warrior, with the same resolve.
Before setting out into the storm, I covered myself from head to toe in waterproof leather. My jacket was velcro’d into my gloves, my pants into my boots, my high collar to my helmet. I was toasty inside, maybe too toasty. NASA would have provided an interior fan. Or two. I reminded myself that this cocoon was better then being drenched to the bone. Much better. My change of clothes and tools, even my bow and arrows, were in waterproof containers. I was well prepared, a seasoned biker, an off-road racer, trained to maneuver my Ducati through every conceivable obstacle; rain, snow, mud or what have you.\
A raging downpour wouldn’t bother me. Not too much.
But I was wrong. The rain was like fire; the first ten miles out of Portland that late afternoon was like a death ride through the fiery pits of hell. Pretty much. The unrelenting downpour came to me at sixty miles per hour. Puddles on the highway I couldn’t possibly dodge, appeared out of nowhere, jerking my front tire, forcing quick maneuverings to avoid a hundred and eighty pound splat on the glazed-over highway. Me.
As the monster eighteen wheel semi’s sped by me in the other lane, their water sprays and suction drafts conspiring to suck me under, my mantra became Turn back. Turn back. Turn back. The awareness of danger and one obstacle after the other expanded my instinct to survive. I became hyper-focused, with no other choice but to continue on.
Looking up, I envied the men in their beasts, their cozy box homes on eighteen wheels, with surround sound country music and maybe a Jack Russell on their lap to keep them company. I started singing in my mind, six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight, as the wind and rain kept smashing against me. My new mantra was, I’m gonna make it home tonight. I’m gonna make it home tonight, as I searched for gaps between lingering rain drops on my helmet visor, and beads of sweat dripping from my eyebrows, to see clearly.
Inside my leather cocoon, sweat gathered at my collar, and dripped down my chest. My pits were wet, my butt was wet, and still, I soldiered forward, glad there was no ice on the road, or deer in my headlight, or snakes to thump over, or whatever would cause me to fly into the next ditch, or slide under the moving beast, and die.
And, as crazy as it was, I felt totally and completely alive. It was as though all my systems were functioning as they were designed; at the highest level of alertness and awareness. When I thought, just maybe, I had mastered this storm, the rain died down.
By the time I reached Salem, an hour later, a gentle benign rain welcomed me, and from there to Newport the storm was only a memory.
I chose the first motel as I entered Newport. Once in the warm room, I abandoned my cocoon, and lingered in a hot shower. I ate an immediately forgotten dinner in the diner across the street, before settling into the dry bed, with soft pillows, and Tom Bodett turning out my lights. The last thing I remembered before I passed out was this song,
Well I pulled out of Pittsburgh heading down that Eastern seaboard.
I got my diesel wound up and she's a running like never before.
There's a speed zone ahead that's all right,
I don't see a cop in sight,
Six days on the road and I'm gonna make it home tonight.