avid Becker wandered aimlessly down Avenida del Cid and triedto collect his thoughts. Muted shadows played on the cobblestonesbeneath his feet. The vodka was still with him. Nothing about hislife seemed in focus at the moment. His mind drifted back to Susan,wondering if she'd gotten his phone message yet.

Up ahead, a Seville Transit Bus screeched to a halt in front ofa bus stop. Becker looked up. The bus's doors cranked open,but no one disembarked. The diesel engine roared back to life, butjust as the bus was pulling out, three teenagers appeared out of abar up the street and ran after it, yelling and waving. The engineswound down again, and the kids hurried to catch up.

Thirty yards behind them, Becker stared in utter incredulity.His vision was suddenly focused, but he knew what he was seeing wasimpossible. It was a one-in-a-million chance.

I'm hallucinating.

But as the bus doors opened, the kids crowded around to board.Becker saw it again. This time he was certain. Clearly illuminatedin the haze of the corner streetlight, he'd seen her.

The passengers climbed on, and the bus's engines revved upagain. Becker suddenly found himself at a full sprint, the bizarreimage fixed in his mind—black lipstick, wild eye shadow, andthat hair… spiked straight up in three distinctive spires.Red, white, and blue.

As the bus started to move, Becker dashed up the street into awake of carbon monoxide.

"Espera!" he called, running behind the bus.

Becker's cordovan loafers skimmed the pavement. His usualsquash agility was not with him, though; he felt off balance. Hisbrain was having trouble keeping track of his feet. He cursed thebartender and his jet lag.

The bus was one of Seville's older diesels, and fortunatelyfor Becker, first gear was a long, arduous climb. Becker felt thegap closing. He knew he had to reach the bus before itdownshifted.

The twin tailpipes choked out a cloud of thick smoke as thedriver prepared to drop the bus into second gear. Becker strainedfor more speed. As he surged even with the rear bumper, Beckermoved right, racing up beside the bus. He could see the reardoors—and as on all Seville buses, it was propped wide open:cheap air-conditioning.

Becker fixed his sights on the opening and ignored the burningsensation in his legs. The tires were beside him, shoulder high,humming at a higher and higher pitch every second. He surged towardthe door, missing the handle and almost losing his balance. Hepushed harder. Underneath the bus, the clutch clicked as the driverprepared to change gears.

He's shifting! I won't make it!

But as the engine cogs disengaged to align the larger gears, thebus let up ever so slightly. Becker lunged. The engine reengagedjust as his fingertips curled around the door handle. Becker'sshoulder almost ripped from its socket as the engine dug in,catapulting him up onto the landing.

David Becker lay collapsed just inside the vehicle'sdoorway. The pavement raced by only inches away. He was now sober.His legs and shoulder ached. Wavering, he stood, steadied himself,and climbed into the darkened bus. In the crowd of silhouettes,only a few seats away, were the three distinctive spikes ofhair.

Red, white, and blue! I made it!

Becker's mind filled with images of the ring, the waitingLearjet 60, and at the end of it all, Susan.

As Becker came even with the girl's seat wondering what tosay to her, the bus passed beneath a streetlight. The punk'sface was momentarily illuminated.

Becker stared in horror. The makeup on her face was smearedacross a thick stubble. She was not a girl at all, but a young man.He wore a silver stud in his upper lip, a black leather jacket, andno shirt.

"What the fuck do you want?" the hoarse voiceasked. His accent was New York.

With the disorientated nausea of a slow-motion free fall, Beckergazed at the busload of passengers staring back at him. They wereall punks. At least half of them had red, white, and blue hair.

"Siéntate!" the driver yelled.

Becker was too dazed to hear.

"Siéntate!" The driver screamed. "Sit down!"

Becker turned vaguely to the angry face in the rearview mirror.But he had waited too long.

Annoyed, the driver slammed down hard on the brakes. Becker felthis weight shift. He reached for a seat back but missed. For aninstant, David Becker was airborne. Then he landed hard on thegritty floor.

On Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. Headjusted his wire-rim glasses and peered after the departing bus.David Becker had escaped, but it would not be for long. Of all thebuses in Seville, Mr. Becker had just boarded the infamous number27.

Bus 27 had only one destination.