Free Death is Forever by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

was wholly focused on her in the same way that she focused on her photography when she worked. At that instant she was the only thing in the world that existed for Cole Blackburn. To be the focus of such scrutiny was both unnerving and exhilarating.
    “You don’t like taking orders,” Cole said in a soft voice, “and I don’t like giving them. But I know what the stakes are. You don’t. At least two people died getting those stones into your hands. I’m betting that you’re intelligent enough not to defy me for no better reason than temper. If I’m wrong, I’ll survive. You won’t. You have a choice. Trust your father, trust me, or trust God that the next stranger coming through that door doesn’t have a gun in one hand and a revised version of Crazy Abe’s will in the other.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “You do that, Erin Shane Windsor. Think very hard. And while you’re at it, think about ‘Uncertain Spring’ and the gosling that froze to death in an unexpected blizzard.”
    For a slashing instant she remembered the cruel, beautiful dawn when she’d discovered the gosling lying rigid beneath a glittering shroud. She’d wept at seeing the tiny body encased in ice.
    And then she’d taken out her camera to catch the brutal perfection of a time and a place and a dawn that owed nothing to man.
    “Life has always defined death, and death, life,” Cole said, watching her intently. “Anyone who understands that as clearly as you do should be able to decide how much a diamond mine that might not exist is worth—but whether or not the mine exists, owning it could cost your life. When you understand that, you’ll sell your inheritance to someone who knows the territory.”
    “Someone like you?”
    “Yes.”
    “What would you pay me for a mine that might not exist?”
    “More than you need. Less than your life is worth.” He turned and walked to the door, opened it. “I’ll call you at the end of the week. If you want to reach me before then, call BlackWing. The number is in the tin box with the rest of your legacy.”
    The door closed, leaving Erin alone with a handful of extraordinary diamonds.

7
Los Angeles
    For a long time Erin stood motionless, staring at the rough diamonds in her palm, absorbing a reality she’d never known before, watching light shift and shimmer through their mysterious crystal cores. Curious, she touched the tip of her tongue to the green stone. It was cool, clean, faintly salty. She tasted her own skin for comparison. Less salt. She tasted one of the colorless diamonds. No taste at all.
    He held this stone, not the others.
    She could see him cradling the green diamond in his palm, smoothing his thumb over it, watching the heart of summer shimmer and glow in his hand.
    The salt I tasted came from his skin.
    A strange shimmer of awareness shot through the pit of her stomach. What unnerved her even more was that she wanted to taste the stone again.
    I tasted him.
    Erin shoved the stones back into the worn velvet bag as though she’d been burned. Restlessly she picked up the first sheet of poetry and began to look for clues to the location of a diamond mine that might or might not exist. She scanned the sheets quickly, then more slowly, frowning.
    When she was finished, she read the sheets again, shaking her head. None of it made sense. Although diamonds were mentioned several times, drinking, pissing, and screwing were mentioned much more often. There was no mention of a mine at all.
    Muttering about crazy old men, Erin stuffed the pages back into the tin box and picked up the will again. When she finished reading it, and its warning, she felt no more at ease. Remembering her conversation with Cole Blackburn wasn’t any comfort either.
    Whoever owns the Sleeping Dog Mines is a deer at the beginning of hell’s own hunting season.
    You make my legacy sound more like a curse than a gift.
    It is. Trust your father, trust me, or trust God that the next stranger through that