Free Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? by G. M. Ford Page B

barely above the truck's tire level, seemed disinclined to compete for
space.
    He intimidated his way through the midafternoon madness at breakneck pace,
turned left on First Avenue, and headed uptown. By the time I rounded the
corner, he was three blocks up, whistling along in the right-hand lane while
the bulk of the traffic inexplicably crawled along on the left. I started to
follow along in the right lane but was stopped by a tandem Metro bus, which
pulled to the curb, blocking both my path and my view.
    By the time the bus disgorged its passengers and got back underway, I was
sure I'd lost him. I nearly sideswiped a new green Wagoneer as I rocketed
around the bus and tried to make up ground. I got lucky.
    Six blocks up the hill, the Ford looked like it was long gone until, just
before University, a UPS van veered suddenly into its path. I could see the
nose of the truck dive as he stood on the brakes. Even from this distance I
could see some of the collected mud that layered the sides of the truck break
loose and turn to dust on the street.
    The UPS driver was already out of the truck and on his way inside one of the
buildings. They may run the tightest ship in the shipping business, but they're
a pain in the ass in traffic. As far as UPS drivers are concerned, the world is
their parking lot.
    I'd made up nearly four blocks by the time the pickup had managed to force
its way out into the left lane. I had no trouble making the light as he turned
right up University. He was heading for the freeway.
    I stayed a respectful quarter mile back as we worked our way up I-5. He wove
in and out of traffic, missing no opportunity to make additional time,
zigzagging through the building stream of afternoon commuters. I had no choice
but to do likewise. When I was younger, I used to drive like this all the time.
Today I expected to be pulled over, pummeled, and summarily arrested at any
moment. I felt old and stodgy.
    For the next fifteen miles only the constant thickening of the traffic
allowed me to keep him in sight. As we roared through the confluence of I-5 and
I-405, something was ejected from the truck window. It bounced several times
and came to a stop on the shoulder. The Rainer can was still spinning as I shot
past.
    As the traffic thinned out on the north side of Everett, the driver put the
hammer own. He was cruising at a smooth eighty. Bits of debris parachuted from
the bed of the truck. The Fiat was flat out and losing ground. Another can was
thrown from the truck. I was standing on the accelerator. The little car didn't
have any more to give. Five more minutes and I was going to be history. I
backed off. No point in eating an engine in a lost cause.
    As I crested the top of a small rise, I saw the Ford, now a half mile ahead,
veer sharply to the right and head down the Marysville exit ramp. There was
still hope. I got back on the gas.
    It was better than that. The ramp was full. The light was red. The truck was
no more than a hundred yards ahead when I ran the yellow and made the turn
toward downtown Marysville. For the first time, I could make out the
red-and-blue flannel shirt of the driver through the dusty window.
    We moved our way back out the east side of town, first through a
lower-income residential neighborhoods, then through a seedy commercial zone,
and finally, nearly at the edge of civilization itself, through an unpopulated
area of defunct sawmills and construction companies.
    Without so much as tapping the brakes, the driver made a ninety-degree turn
into the gravel parking lot, spewing dust and stones at the truck fought for
traction. I continued up past the next building and turned right.
    The narrow driveway led back past the building. I pulled to a stop. I was in
the back parking lot of Johnson Logging Supply. Several concrete dividers
separated this little lot from the big one next door. I had a perfect view of
the parking lot and the front door. The Ford was empty.
    The Last Stand was a large