COLBY WAS FINISHING a phone call when Austin approached and said, “Did she tell you about the truck and a missing statue?”
“Yeah. I thought she was delirious. Just checked into the station. A truck matching the description she gave went off the highway and caught fire. They found four bodies burned beyond recognition.”
“Any sign of a bronze statue?”
“No. The fire was pretty hot. Probably would have melted your statue.”
Austin thanked Colby and went back to fill Carina in. He didn’t tell her about the bodies in the burned-out truck. She glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get out of this place. I’m going to miss my appointment with Jon Benson, the National Geographic photographer I told you about.”
“When are you supposed to see him?”
“About an hour.” She gave Austin an address. “Can we make it?”
“If we leave now. Depends on how you feel.”
“I feel fine.” She stood and managed a couple of steps before she wobbled. “I wouldn’t mind a helping hand, though.”
They hooked arms and shuffled down the hall. Colby had left a note at the nurses’ station to call him when Carina was ready for an interview. By the time she had signed the papers checking her out, Carina seemed much stronger. The nurse insisted that she ride down to the lobby in a wheelchair. When Carina walked out the front door, she was weaving only slightly.
ON THE DRIVE to Virginia, Carina tried calling the photographer. No one answered the telephone. She assumed Benson had simply stepped out and would be home at the appointed time.
Carina recovered rapidly thanks to the fresh country air blowing through the car window. She put in a call to Baltazar to tell him about the theft. She got an automated reply and left a message.
“You don’t suppose Saxon had anything to do with it, do you?” she said after a moment’s reflection.
“Saxon doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he can help. We could use the photos he took of the Navigator to publicize its loss.”
Carina dug into her pocketbook and found the card Saxon had given her at the Iraqi embassy reception. She called the number written on the back of the card and got the WillardHotel. The desk clerk said Mr. Saxon had checked out. Carina relayed the information to Austin with a self-satisfied smile.
Ten minutes later, Austin turned off the main road and drove down a long dirt driveway to a low-slung, clapboard farmhouse. They pulled up next to a dust-covered pickup truck and went onto the front porch. No one answered repeated knocks on the door. They checked the barn and then came back to the porch. Austin tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open. Carina stuck her head in and called out.
“Mr. Benson?”
A low moan came from inside the house. Austin stepped inside and followed a hallway to the cozy living room, where he borrowed a fireplace poker. Walking quietly, they made their way to the end of the hallway. A man lay faceup on the floor of a large studio.
Carina knelt by the man’s side. The blood had stopped oozing from a head wound that was surrounded by angry blue-black skin.
The studio looked as if it had been hit by a monsoon. Filing cabinet drawers were pulled open. Photos were scattered all over the floor. The computer screen had been smashed. Only the National Geographic covers hanging from the walls were undamaged. Austin called 911 and inspected the other rooms. The rest of the house was deserted.
When Austin returned to the studio, Benson was sitting up against the wall. Carina was holding a towel full of ice cubes gingerly against his head. She had wiped the spittle off his lips. His eyes were open, and he was apparently alert.
Benson was a burly, middle-aged man whose skin had been turned to leather by the sun in the exotic places he had worked. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a film-cartridge vest that was an anachronism in an age of digital photography.
Austin knelt by his side. “How are you feeling?”
“Like crap,” Benson said. “How do I look?”
“Like crap,” Austin said.
Benson managed a weak smile. “Bastards. They were waiting when I came back from my walk to meet with the lady from the UN. Is that you?”
“I’m Carina Mechadi. I’m an investigator with the UNESCO. Mr. Austin here is with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”
The light of recognition sparkled in Benson’s gray eyes. “Did stories on both your outfits years ago.”
“Tell us what happened after you returned from your walk,” Austin said.
“Saw a car out front. Black