Doctor Andrea Nicholson wasn’t thinking about much of anything, not her practice, not her patients, but especially not about someone trying to kill her on the thirty minute trip home from Greensboro to Tryon Hill, North Carolina. She certainly didn’t pay any attention to the black Ford Ranger until it had almost overtaken her Buick. As it’s rear bumper got just past her car, the truck suddenly pulled into her lane. She jammed on the brakes and turned the wheel sharply to the right to avoid the collision, just as the Ford skidded to a stop in front of her. When Andrea stopped, she found the front wheels of her car were nearly in the ditch beside the road. The pickup truck that had tried to run her off the road was stopped sideways blocking both lanes about twenty feet ahead. She saw the passenger side window being lowered and the muzzle of a gun protruded. She ducked at just the right moment as she thought she heard something hit the headrest above her, then she heard the two gunshots. The only move she could make while scrunched down in the seat was to put the Buick into reverse and begin backing down the road, away from the Ford. As she did, a car from the other direction began blowing its horn at the Ranger. Andrea jammed on the brakes again, just before running off the opposite side of the road. The driver of the Ford had no choice but to proceed up the road away from town. Andrea sat back in her seat as her hands began to shake. “That was close,” she said aloud, as she sat still for a moment, then, quite suddenly, a head appeared at her window, and startled her. “Ma’am, are you all right?” She didn’t recognize the voice, but guessed it was the driver of the car that had approached the Ford from the rear. “That guy must have been crazy. Did you know him?” Andrea shook her head, then asked, “Did you get a look at the driver?” “Not really, but he was wearing some kind of a hat and sunglasses.” Then, as an afterthought the stranger asked, “Did he have a gun?” Although there generally isn’t much traffic on the county road, a few cars were beginning to appear and the two stopped vehicles began to create a minor traffic jam. “Can you go with me into town to see the sheriff? I need to report this.” The man nodded his head and began walking back to his car as Andrea restarted the Buick and pulled as far off the road as she could. After letting the backed up traffic go by, she headed the Buick toward town with the other driver following her toward the sheriff’s office. After parking her car in front, she sat for a moment, and realized that her hands were still shaking. The other driver was just getting out of his vehicle as Andrea opened her door and she nodded to him. “Thank you for showing up when you did; otherwise, I might be in bad shape. I’m Andrea Nicholson.” “I’m Thad Thompson. I guess I was in the right place at the right time. Do you live around here?" “Yes, not far from where it happened. Let’s go see if we can find the sheriff, I see that his car is here,” she said pointing to the police vehicle parked in front of them. The door opened slowly and a shaft of light crept across the floor. A figure, dressed in a dark raincoat, entered and moved around the furniture toward an antique sideboard. A hand reached into a china vase on the piece and quickly removed a brass key, which was fastened to a leather fob. The visitor held the key up for a moment and then walked toward a nineteenth century Hepplewhite desk and using the key, unlocked the top drawer. With the drawer pulled open, the dark figure’s hand reached in, feeling in the half-light for what was supposed to be there. A smile crossed the face of the intruder as a hand closed over a .22 caliber handgun. After withdrawing the pistol and closing the drawer, the key was once again used to open the drop down desk and a short amount of searching found two boxes of ammunition for the weapon. There was a moment of hesitation before closing the desk, and then one other item was removed. The figure carefully relocked both desk and drawer before moving back to the china vase and depositing the key. The other item removed from the desk was an ordinary pack of book matches. A voice was heard chiding over and over, ‘…don’t play with matches, don’t play with matches…’ in a singsong fashion. It was only in the mind, not aloud, and the intruder had no choice except to listen.
After a moment, the matchbook cover was opened and a match was removed and lit. The match flamed for a moment and then was dropped into the urn to burn itself out. In turn, each match in the book was removed, burned and dropped in on top of the key. After this activity, the figure sat down in front of an antique typewriter, inserted a sheet of paper and typed a short note. An envelope was addressed and the single sheet of bond paper was slipped inside. The letter was sealed and stamped and ready to be sent. The figure finally spoke aloud as the pistol was held up. “He won’t mind if I borrow this, he isn’t even here; he never is. He won’t mind at all. Besides, I have an important job to do; someone has to take care of it.” The visitor walked slowly toward a row of silver framed photographs on the opposite wall and, after scanning the pictures, chose one and removed it from the wall. As a final task, the figure picked up another key from the top of the sideboard and looked at the insignia on the key chain. The intruder mouthed the letters, “F O R D” aloud, before depositing the key ring in the raincoat pocket on top of the pistol. There was no one to hear the soliloquy as the figure moved about. After a few moments of silence the intruder stepped out into the lighted hallway and closed the door, once again plunging the room into darkness..