Roman might well have overlapped with characters connected to the Osa murders. An early suspect in Kimberly’s murder lived in the foothills above the Rio Conte. Pata Lora’s cousin was sentenced to fifty years in prison for killing the two Austrians. Cody was reportedly seen near Matapalo where Lisa Artz was murdered in her own bed.

While we were in Carate, Do?a Berta, the little old lady at the Corners Hostel, had changed her story. She now remembered Cody had returned, then left again. We accompanied Dondee and Tony, a Cruz Roja employee stationed in Puerto Jiménez, back to the Corners to investigate. The pair studied Do?a Berta’s cryptic entries, asking questions that to me sounded like interrogation.

I’d hoped to see something concrete in the ledger: “Dial” or “Cody.” Instead I saw “XXXX” and “?5,000 pago” marked in green highlighter. Fingers pointed at text, flipped pages, and settled on “Martes 22 Julio.” The three concluded that Cody had returned on Monday, July 21, then left again for Dos Brazos on Tuesday, July 22, leaving money for a bed on his return on Wednesday, July 23. Today was Saturday, July 26. According to this account, Cody had been here only four days ago and was expected back any day.

The relief of this news settled over me like a warm blanket on a shock victim. I smiled broadly at Thai. I looked forward to seeing my son. It had been six months since our rafting trip, the second longest gap in his life without physical contact between us, without a hug, a shared meal, a pun, or a grinning story. I was sure he had some new tales to tell from his weeks on the Osa.

Prior to our arrival, Cody sightings had come from all over the Osa Peninsula. Cody had been seen wearing a safari outfit between Carate and Matapalo. A bus driver had dropped him off at Dos Brazos; miners had seen him in Piedras Blancas. Pata Lora had claimed he was with Cody in Puerto Jiménez and that Cody went surfing afterward, where he was seen near a Matapalo bar.

Listening to all these sightings, it seemed easier for all to disregard Cody as an irresponsible twenty-something who was too cheap to hire a real guide than to accept Roman as lost or injured in Corcovado’s wilderness. The sentiment was “Let’s just wait for Cody to show up. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t want to.”

Besides, the kid sounded foolish: illegally in the park, alone and off-trail in its wilderness. To look for Roman in a trackless jungle of poisonous snakes, lawless miners, and few trails was like looking for a needle in a burning haystack. The more I claimed that the Roman I knew differed from the Cody that everyone cast as a stereotypical gringo kid, the more they pitied me as a father in denial, the first stage of grief.

This reaction reminded me of an incident a decade ago. One of my former students at APU, a popular, easygoing kid named Joe, had taken up climbing. Joe and a more experienced mountaineer were climbing a local Anchorage peak unroped when a cornice collapsed and sent Joe thousands of feet to his death. When his father heard of the accident, he rushed to Alaska, arriving at the airport ready to head onto the glacier where Joe had fallen, thinking he might still be alive.

The father had no experience with glacier travel. He brought downhill skis and boots unsuited for skiing uphill. Although he could, of course, conceive of the danger and knew he lacked the skills of professionals who had been unable to find his son, he was still a father who loved his son deeply. His instincts had implored him to act. The father never set foot in the mountains, perhaps talked down by the leader of the search, or simply aware of his own limitations. After Joe’s father returned home, I telephoned him, partly to give my condolences, but mostly to empathize father to father. “I have a son,” I said. “I can’t think of anything worse than losing him.”

Eventually, I gave up kicking off Cruz Roja’s warm blanket. Giving in kept my shock at bay. It felt good. Cody was everywhere and doing fine. He just wasn’t contacting his friends or parents.

Relieved, I emailed Roman that night:

Looking for you. Everyone is. Wished you’d emailed us when you had the chance. They say you were with this guy Pato de Lorra or something like that. And he has been arrested and is being questioned. They say you’ve crossed the mountains twice now. With Pato de Lorra. Practice for Darien? Hope to see you safe and sound and soon.

I had Thai ask Tony, who lived in Puerto Jiménez, where was the best place in town to eat. Feeling gracious, I wanted to treat Dondee, Tony, and Thai to a meal. As we waited on our dinners of seafood, rice, and plantains, a gentle sea breeze carried the night air into the restaurant. I stepped out to the busy waterfront and called Peggy on my cell.

Waiting for the call to go through, I gazed out into the tropical night, looking hopefully at every young man in a tank top and short hair, expecting him to say, “Dad! What are you doing here?”

Peggy picked up. Just hearing her voice soothed me.

“It looks like people have seen Roman around. He left some stuff at the hostel and now the old lady who runs it remembers him coming back. It looks like everything’s okay. I hope he’s not mad that I’m here.” We both chuckled.

“Oh, good,” she cooed. “It sounds like he’s back, but just not checking in.”

“I still think coming down was the right thing to do.”

“Of course, it was. He wouldn’t have written us if he didn’t think we’d come down to help. You had to go down to be sure he was okay. You’re his dad. What are you going to say when you see him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, Let’s do a hike in Corcovado?”

We both went quiet. Our silence admitted that the whole thing was unlikely. But it felt good not to worry. To think he was safe. That he was okay.

Chapter 24

The Helicopter

Corcovado mountains from the air, July 27, 2014.

Courtesy of the author

After dinner, Dondee informed us there’d be a helicopter search in the morning. This suggested in actions, if not words, that somebody besides me was not fully convinced by Pata Lora’s story. Or that Do?a Berta from the Corners Hostel had convinced Dondee that Cody had gone back into the jungle a second time—and not come out.

More likely, the helicopter search was a response from American pressure to look more thoroughly. Since the day I left Alaska, the state’s lieutenant governor, a friend of mine named Mead Treadwell, had been pushing for U.S. National Guard involvement. Ultimately, Mead’s push for military assistance would reach the four-star general in charge of the Southern Command, General John F. Kelly, one step below President Obama’s Secretary of Defense.

Thai and I went back to the Iguana and heard the story of Pata Lora there, too, a narrative ossifying like a plaster cast across the Osa. Whenever one local whispered “Pata Lora,” another nodded solemnly, or twisted his face in a grimace. Maybe frontier justice was a simple matter of picking the local pariah for the most recent crime. Innocent or not, truth be damned, at least they’d be rid of the rat.

Depending on who was talking, Pata Lora was currently being held for drugs, theft, even murder. Pata Lora told the OIJ that the gringo paid him from an ATM on July 16, after Roger Mu?oz had seen them in Carate. Here was something tangible that we could check: when did Roman last withdraw money?

I filled my notebook haphazardly with scribbled names, numbers, notes, and quotes. Still half convinced Cody Roman was around somewhere, but just too stoned to check his emails, I’d written in the margin, “We could just wait for him to walk out—but too many people involved, too much momentum.”

Back at the Iguana, Thai and I shared a room stuffed with gear. He wore his long black hair in a ponytail that reached past his shoulders and a choker of dzi and other beads he’d bargained hard for on our trip to Tibet the year before, when we had searched Himalayan glaciers a second time for ice worms. Thai was an adventurer who could do everything—climb, boat, ski, paraglide, hike fast, mountain-bike, navigate, save lives. Importantly, with his golden-colored skin and almond-shaped eyes, he fit in everywhere he went. People welcomed his warm smile, easy laugh, and honest enthusiasm.

“We gotta get to the Conte River, where Roman said he was going,” I implored. “Cruz Roja doesn’t seem to believe he ever went there. And this Pata Lora story—much as I wish it were true—it doesn’t seem right. If Roman came out, he would’ve contacted at least his friends, if not me and Peggy.”

Thai frowned sympathetically. “Yeah, I know. But first we have to establish credibility with Dondee and the park service. We have to show we are capable in the jungle without making mistakes. Accidents happen and with us wandering around out there . . . well, we could create another rescue situation. That’s their concern.”