The kid’s hand shot forward. I held the bill out of his reach.
“Take the highway west from town. Beyond where the Arriba Pathway T’s in, past the Las Brisas del Pacifico, down on the beach. Got a blue awning. Watch for a road cuts inland on the left. There’s a guy named Blackbird rents out a couple of tree houses up there. Your guy’s in one of them.”
“He’s still here?”
“He’s still here.”
Our eyes locked for a moment, then I let him snatch the money.
As I hurried back down toward the water, my pulse was racing. Could it be this simple? Walk into one café and score?
Or had I been played? Was the kid now laughing on his cellphone, describing the dumb gringo he’d just scammed?
But he knew I’d come back if I’d been conned. Right. Come back and do what?
Again I considered options. Which seemed few. Hurry there now? Wait until later, when Ryan might be in bed? How much later? Sleep, then strike at sunrise?
My stomach growled.
That decided it. Dinner first, then I’d set off.
I unfolded and checked my TripAdvisor printouts. El Lagarto was just up the beach. A lot of people liked it. What’s not to like about a joint with a slow-dancing gator couple as its logo?
I located the entrance and followed a lantern-lit walkway to a very long bar. Beyond the bar, a man tended steaks, fish, and plantains on a huge grill. The smell set my stomach whining again.
A woman wearing an embroidered cotton top seated me in an open area filled with tables and chairs that looked made of fossilized wood. Already half were occupied. Overhead, lanterns and colored lights twinkled softly. At ground level, candles flickered inside dozens of glass hurricane chimneys. In the gathering dusk, across the sand, the ocean boomed softly.
I ordered the seafood platter. Ate it. Felt sluggish as blood diverted to my gut.
I was on my second coffee, idly scanning my fellow diners, when my brain snapped back to attention.
Across the restaurant, a man stood talking to the bartender, his back to me. He wore a black T-shirt with a neon-green surf logo, faded denim shorts, and boat shoes. The hair was blonder and shaggier than the last time I’d seen it. But I knew the jawline, the shoulders, the long ropy limbs.
As I stared, heart pounding, the man flicked a quick one-finger wave at the bartender, turned, and walked out.
I dug money from my purse. Too much. I didn’t care.
Slapping colones on the table, I bolted for the door.
CHAPTER 6
IN THE ATMOSPHERIC but ineffective lantern light, I saw a neon-green surfboard near the end of the walkway. It disappeared as its wearer turned right.
Ryan was ten yards ahead when I hit the beach road. He wasn’t walking fast, yet I had to quicken my pace to keep up.
After going north a few blocks, he headed west along the highway. That fit with the dreadlocked kid’s account.
The tourists thinned as we moved farther from the center of town. With fewer rival noises, the ocean sounded louder. The sky, now fully black, was starting to show points of twinkling white light.
Fifteen minutes out, Ryan stopped abruptly. I froze, certain he’d seen me. Uncertain how my intrusion into his new life would be received.
Ryan’s shoulders rounded and his hands rose. A match flared. A tiny orange dot lit his face briefly. Then he straightened and turned left.
I let the distance between us increase, then I followed.
The road was narrow and paved only with gravel. Vegetation packed both sides, dark and dense in the moonless night.
Mosquitoes whined. Fearful of discovery, I fought the urge to slap them away.
Ryan’s footsteps continued another fifty, maybe sixty yards. Then a door opened, banged shut. Seconds later, light filtered through slivers in the tightly packed flora.
I held back a full minute, then moved forward.