No. Barrow had nailed it when he’d asked if I could think of a spot Ryan had mentioned. I remembered comments. Ryan loved the place. It was where he’d go to hide out. To drop out.

Doubts about my decision not to tell my daughter about Mama. No. That decision was sound. Katy was serving in Afghanistan. She had enough on her mind.

All night I tossed and turned, questions skittering up and down my neural pathways. Doubts. Uncertainties.

Certainties. Luna Finch. Rogue cells multiplying out of control.

The last time check occurred at 2:54. The alarm screamed at five.

The flight to Atlanta was short, the layover just a little over an hour. Not bad. But this leg was torture.

I tried reading. Life. Maybe Keith Richards’s problems could make mine seem small. No go.

I closed the book and my eyes.

Something brushed my arm. I raised my lids. My chin from my shoulder.

The passenger beside me was steadying the plastic cup holding the remains of my cranberry juice. He was tall, with faded red hair and eyes the color of smoked glass.

“We are about to land.” They were the first words he’d spoken since takeoff, four hours earlier.

“Sorry.” I took the cup and returned my tray to its upright position. My seat.

“You are on vacation?” the man asked in softly accented English.

What the hell. The guy had prevented a spill. “I’m trying to find someone.”

“In Liberia?”

“Playa Samara.”

“Ah. My destination also.”

“Mmm.”

“I own property there.”

The man withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to me. His name was Nils Vanderleer. He sold irrigation systems for a company headquartered in Atlanta. Or so his card claimed.

I managed a smile. I thought.

“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Vanderleer asked.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“Yes, you are.”

The plane banked and we both glanced toward the window. Vanderleer could see out. I could not.

Moments later, the wheels engaged. Vanderleer turned back to me. “Might I buy you dinner one evening?”

“I’m hoping to be in Samara only one night.”

“That’s a shame. Costa Rica is a magical place.”

The line at passport control took thirty minutes. I exited the terminal perspiring, headachey, and cranky as hell.

Vanderleer was on the sidewalk, frowning and pacing. I had no choice but to pass him. When he saw me, he put up his hands in a “What can you do?” gesture.

“I booked a car, but of course it has not arrived on time. The driver is now ten minutes out. If you don’t mind a short wait, I am happy to take you to Samara.”

“Thanks for the offer. My hotel has ordered a taxi.”

Three hours after wheels down, I finally passed under a white stone arch rising from a wall thick with some sort of flowering vine. A wooden sign announced my arrival at Villas Katerina.

The place looked as advertised online. Palm trees. Woven hammocks. Villas with yellow stucco walls, white trim, and red tile roofs circling an amoeba-shaped pool.

The woman at reception was small and bubbly and had a bad case of acne. She took my credit card, all smiles, then led me to a villa set apart from the others. Smaller. Overlooking a garden lush with tropical vegetation.

I entered, wheeled my bag to a carved wooden chair beside one window, opened the drapes, and looked out. Nothing but foliage.

I turned and surveyed my surroundings—buttery walls, orange trim, orange bedspread and drapes. Native art, crude, probably local. Tiny kitchenette. Tiled bath, jarringly blue coming off the carroty bedroom.

Suddenly, I felt exhausted. Kicking off my shoes, I stretched out on the bed to consider options. Nap? No way. The sooner I found Ryan, the sooner I could leave.

Where was I, exactly? Samara Beach. Playa Samara. On the Pacific coast of a peninsula curling down from the northwest corner of Costa Rica, not far from its border with Nicaragua.

The night before, I’d done some research. Costa Rica is a small country, just a hair over fifty thousand square kilometers. A country known for its biodiversity. For its rain forests, cloud forests, woodlands, and wetlands. A country with a quarter of its territory protected as national parks and refuges.

Somewhere in it was Andrew Ryan. I hoped.

The IP address had placed Ryan in Samara four weeks earlier. The town was small, less popular with tourists than the upmarket sands of Tamarindo and Flamingo. That would work in my favor.

I pulled out the map I’d downloaded and studied the small tangle of streets. Noted a church, a laundromat, a number of shops, hotels, bars, and restaurants. A couple of Internet cafés.

Ryan is many things. Witty, generous, a crack detective. When it comes to communication, he is a Luddite. Sure, he has a smartphone. And he knows how to use the tools available to cops. CODIS, AFIS, CPIC, the lot. But that’s it. When off duty, Ryan prefers to call. He never texts, rarely emails.

And he doesn’t own a laptop. Says he wants to keep his personal life personal.

I got to my feet, undressed, and went into the shower. After toweling off, I put on sandals, jeans, and a T-shirt. Then I popped two Sudafed, shouldered my purse, and headed out.

The acne-faced woman was sweeping dead blossoms from the stone decking surrounding the pool. On a whim, I crossed to her and spoke in Spanish. Flashed a picture of Ryan.

The woman’s name was Estella. She knew of no Canadian living in Samara. She remembered a foursome who visited briefly from Edmonton. Both men were short and bald. When I asked, she cheerfully provided directions.

The walk along the beach took only minutes. I passed a restaurant, a surf school, a police station the size of a soap dish.

Samara’s main drag was a jog in the highway cutting through town. I reached it by heading straight up from the water.

Two horses grazed a patch of grass at the first corner I reached. A few cars and motorcycles were parked on either side. Power lines crisscrossed the air above.

The nearest Internet café was jammed between a souvenir shop and a small grocery. Its front was stucco, done in the same lemon and tangerine theme as my room. Lettering on the window offered international calls, Internet service, computer and iPhone repair.

The interior, considerably more drab than the exterior, held a counter, a soda vending machine, and six computer stations. At one station a confused-looking young woman studied a Lonely Planet guidebook, backpack at her feet. I assumed the other services were offered through the door at the far end of the shop.

A kid manned the register, back against the wall, front legs of his stool raised off the floor. He was maybe sixteen, with pasty skin and ratty blond dreads gathered high on his head. The dreads bobbed as he talked into a cellphone.

I approached.

The kid continued his conversation.

I cleared my throat.

The kid pointed to the computers but didn’t disconnect.

I placed a photo on the counter and slid it toward him.

The kid righted the stool and glanced at the image. Up at me. Something flickered in his eyes, was gone. “I’ll call you back.” East Coast accent, maybe New York. To me, “So?”

“Have you seen him?”

“What makes you think that?”

“He may have come here to use the Internet.”

“Yeah, lady. That’s what people do.”

“You’d notice him. He has sandy hair and stands over six feet tall.”

“In his moccasins?”

I hadn’t a clue what he meant by that.

“I’ll be damned, Natty Bumppo right here in Samara.”

Okay. The kid read James Fenimore Cooper. Maybe he wasn’t a total loss.

“It’s important that I find him.”

“What’s he done?”

“He’s a cop. His input is needed on an investigation.”

The kid glanced toward the door, the Lonely Planet girl. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and whispered, “Could be I’ve seen him.”