I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, no!” Dez and Ransom were a hundred feet behind us, running, pissed-off looks on their faces.

Mayburn saw them. “Faster! My car is just on the other side of the bridge.”

We sprinted along the path, past joggers and waddling ducks. We bolted in front of the North Pond Café. This time, I didn’t stop to reflect about Sam. We ran under a fieldstone bridge.

“There!” Mayburn yelled, pointing at a tiny silver car, his late ’60s Aston Martin coupe.

“You know I don’t like that car,” I said, hoofing toward it. “It’s impossible to get in.”

“Just shut up and get your ass inside, and this car will get us out of here.” He ran to the driver’s side and opened it, sliding in.

I was still standing outside the car, and when I looked behind me, Ransom and Dez were running under the bridge. “Hurry!”

Mayburn opened the door, and I folded myself into the low, little car.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Dez and Ransom had reached the back of the car and were slamming it with their fists. Mayburn started the engine, but Ransom and Dez were on either side. Dez was next to my window, and he grinned that lecherous grin, before he raised his fist and smashed it against the glass. The window cracked like a spiderweb.

I cried out, but it was nothing like Mayburn, who bellowed, “You motherfucker!” Mayburn really did like his car. He jerked the thing into Reverse. Ransom smashed the driver’s side window.

“That’s it,” Mayburn said, shifting into gear. “I don’t like to hurt people but the hell with it.”

He put his foot on the gas, and the car shot into the street. And, apparently, right over Ransom’s foot. You could hear the guy howl in pain.

Mayburn zipped up the street, and at last, we’d lost them.

“Thank you for saving me!” I said, but Mayburn was just muttering about his car, his face flushed.

“Lucy called you and told you to find me?” I asked.

“Yeah. I was already outside the museum, so it was easy.”

“What do you mean you were already outside? Like you were following Lucy?”

He nodded, his face more chagrined now than pissed.

“That’s not going to make Lucy very happy.”

“She’s definitely not happy. She said her husband is probably taping her conversations, and now I’m following her. She told me not to call, not to text.”

“Ouch. Sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“I warned you about that.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

Mayburn sighed, turned the car onto Clark Street.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I’m taking you to your house, and then…” He paused, looked at me. “Is your home phone number and address listed?”

“No. When I moved in years ago I’d just finished dating a guy who was a little too enthusiastic, so I unlisted it.”

“Good. I’m going to wait while you pack and hope that those guys didn’t find where you live some other way, then I’m taking you to the airport.”

“Where am I going?”

“Out of town. Anywhere you want. The farther the better. Dez Romano is serious business.”

“Then why did you send me to hang with him at Gibsons, for Christ’s sake?”

“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I’m just so screwed up about Lucy. It’s clouded my judgment.”

“Maybe it’s clouding your judgment now. Maybe I don’t have to get out of town.”

He stopped at a light and looked at me. His face was as serious as I’d ever seen it. “You’re leaving. I’ll work things on this end. I’ll try and dig up some stuff on Romano. See if I can get behind the layers of reputable businesses he hides behind, and if there’s anything to find, I’ll turn it over to the authorities.”

“Can you also look into Kelvin McNeil? That’s my grandfather.” I told him how he was killed, about the clipping I found in my dad’s book.

Mayburn shrugged. “I’ll look into it, but it’s not strange that your father would have a clipping of his own father’s death.”

“I know. I just want to know more about it.”

“What if there’s nothing to find?”

“Then there’s nothing to find. And what about Dez Romano? What if there’s nothing to find there, either? He obviously covers his tracks. It was Michael they prosecuted, not him, because he covered them so well.”

“Then we’ll talk to the Feds about getting you an order of protection. I just don’t want him looking for you while we’re trying to get all these things done. These guys specialize in making people disappear. You need to do that before they get the chance. No discussion. You’re going. So, you got some place in mind?”

I looked through the windshield at girls in sundresses crossing the street, towels in hand, on their way to the beach. I loved Chicago in the summer. Old Town Art Fair was starting today, and the street fairs would continue every weekend from one quirky neighborhood to the next until September. But I’d spent one summer in another place, a place I had loved, too-a sticky, hot, glorious city with an array of streetside cafés, enoteche and ristoranti. Plus, the questions about my dad wouldn’t wait until October.

I looked at Mayburn. “I’ve got someone to see first, then I’m going to Rome.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant, McNeil. You’re running from the Mob, and you’re going to head to their homeland?”

“You think these guys will expect me to go there?”

“No, it’s probably the last place they’d expect, and they-”

“Exactly. I’m going to the last place they’d think I’d go.”

It all happened fast. Still in Mayburn’s car, I made a call to the airlines and found an open seat on a 3:30 p.m. flight to Rome that afternoon. When I heard the price of that seat I must have looked as if a truck had hit me, because Mayburn quickly said he’d handle the cost as payment for sending me to Gibsons to meet Dez. He also made me hand over my Vespa keys and said he would pick up my scooter from the museum.

When we reached my neighborhood, Old Town Art Fair was in full swing, the streets lined with canvases and beer tents. It made me wistful. I should be getting together with Maggie, heading to the annual party outside St. Michael’s church, drinking beer from a white plastic cup and laughing in the sun.

The good thing was that if Dez and Ransom knew the neighborhood where I lived, it would have been hard to search for us through the hundreds of people strolling the streets. To be safe, I got out of the car and bought a scarf at a tent to throw over my hair. Two minutes later, Mayburn had checked out my place, found nothing and said he would stand downstairs while I packed.

“And don’t call anyone,” he said as I began to climb the steps to my condo, thinking of Theo on those steps, missing him already.

“I should tell my mom I’m leaving.”

“You’ll call her from a payphone at the airport. Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I want to check it out.”

“I really should call my friend Maggie.”

“No.”

“I have to at least text…”

I was about to say Theo, but Mayburn cut me off. “No texting, no e-mailing, no calling. I don’t know yet how those guys found you or if they’ve been watching you.”

“You think they’ve tapped my phones?”

“Your house phone, maybe. Your cell, unlikely. Very unlikely. Now, give me your phone.”

I handed it to him and he flipped out the battery, poked and prodded. “It’s clean,” he said, handing it back to me. “But I still don’t want you on any phones or sending out any smoke signals. I just want to get you out of here. Now, go upstairs and pack.”

“Jesus, no wonder Lucy broke up with you. You’re demanding as hell.”

“Only when I’m worried about people I care about.”

I put my hand on my hip and looked down at him. His eyes were squinting as if he were thinking too hard. Worry lines cut across his forehead. “You care about me?” I said.

He groaned. “Please. Please go pack.”