Moss left Berritts Hills and headed towards Four Oaks. He had already checked in with the men assigned to the massacre at the Broden home. They had assured him the place would be completely cleaned up by ten of the following morning. By then no trace of the nightmare would remain physically in the house. However, detailed photographs and notes were currently being taken. 

It was approaching four-thirty. If Moss kept the pedal to the floorboards he’d be at the hospital just after six. The drive was a long one, through twisting countryside and hilly forest. The trees were already showing signs of Spring: hues of yellow and green burst through the patches of gray and brown in an explosion of renewed life, bringing with them the aroma of waxy new leaves. The air that circled around the inside of the car was warm, and sunshine beat down on his elbow resting on the windowsill. The mountains spilled out in front of him, blue-gray, each hill several shades lighter as they rolled out of sight. The farthest peaks looked like mere smoke puffs. Mort took a turn that put them entirely out of sight, as he once again traveled downward, the scenery replaced by thick oak, cedar and hemlock fir.

At the hospital, he quickly parked and then made his way through the whitewashed pillars into the antiseptic hallway. He waited in a brief line until he was eventually accepted at the glass partitioned-off part of the admittance desk. The woman silhouetted behind the fog-etched glass was slim in form with an incongruous voice that bellowed out at him.

“Fill these forms out, then return them at the next counter,” she stated before yelling, “Next!” through him.

“I’m not checking anyone in, ma’am. I’m here to see some people admitted earlier today.”

“You’re at the wrong counter.”

“I wouldn’t be if there were signs directing me to the right counter. They checked in through here so, no doubt, you can look up their rooms for me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do th–”

Moss reached into his pocket and produced his badge. “I think you can. It’s official.”

“I see,” she snitted. “Names?”

Moss left the counter with the locations of Matt Stevens, Martha Moore and Kelly Broden. He was informed that Stevens had just come out of surgery and was in the ICU ward. No visitors would be permitted for at least an hour. Martha was on the second floor and Kelly was in a private room on the fourth. 

Moss went first to a pay phone, where he called his sister. She became very distraught on the phone as he told her of her son’s condition. He made her promise she would get a ride to the hospital and not attempt the drive on her own. He would meet her in the lobby at eight to take her to her son.

Moss quietly pushed the door open to Martha’s ward. Directly to the right was a nurse’s station. He went to the station and caught the attention of the nurse on duty.

“I’m looking for Martha Moore, I was told she was in this ward.”

“She’s on the right, all the way at the end.”

Moss thanked the woman and made his way to the end of the long, double row of cots. Curtains were pulled around many of them to add a measure of privacy.  He noticed Martha’s curtain was left open.

Martha was busy staring at the ceiling when Moss came around her neighbor’s partition. When her eyes met his, she smiled.

Moss returned the smile. He looked at the dark bruises that lined her eyes behind her heavily bandaged nose.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her gently.

“Fine, I guess. And you?” Her voice was muffled and she sounded as though she had a bad cold.

Moss searched out a chair and pulled it up to her side then gently took her hand. He noticed how warm her hand was and how strong. She was in no way a frail woman. It was her strength that he both loved and admired.

“It’s been a long time,” he said quietly. “I was wondering when we’d ever get the opportunity to talk alone.”

“And who’s fault is that?” she asked around her nose.

Moss regarded her briefly before admitting, “Mine.”

Martha contemplated his features, her eyes searching his, the search ended in a frown. “Why did you leave that way, Merriweather?”

“You know I hate that name.”

She smiled. “I know.”

Moss returned the smile. He looked at the hand nestled in his own. “I see you never remarried,” he said noticing her bare ring finger.

Martha remained quiet, her irises closely matching the bruises that shaded them. Then her hand gripped his more tightly. 

“After Gordon was killed in the war,” she started slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “I never had any reason to remarry, no one was worthy of his memory.” A tricky smiled spread across her lips. “We were good together,” she added. “The times we had were the best life could offer. I was content to let them end with his passing. I never felt regret. I thanked God for those times, Merriweather. I was quite content being by myself after that.” Martha’s grey-blue eyes rested on Moss. They shifted from her memories of the past to the reality of his presence. “Then, you came into my life. You opened up all those feelings again. I could not believe my fortune– to know two such men. When you left, I never looked back on it as a terrible memory. I felt lucky to have had the times we had...”

“Martha–”

“I just couldn’t understand. Why did you leave? Without so much as a good-bye?”

“I left with the intention of returning. I had to close up the Jonas case. I had to try and convince Perkins, that ass, that the cult existed.” Moss looked down at his hands. “I had to try, Martha. I couldn’t let it go–it was still a part of me. Until I close them down, I guess it will always be a part of me.”

“The murders ... those children. The deaths ... there was never any retribution. No justice for them.”

“No. Bartlett and Jonas got off easy. And the others– scot-free. I can’t live with that.”

“Because you are personally involved with any case you work–it’s how you work. And why you are so effective.”

“I was making the case for the further need to investigate this area and the cult’s culpability in the murders of those boys in ’23. I was close Martha. I met with Richards in DC with what I had. He said he needed some time with the files. When I returned to Gainesville the following afternoon, I found all my work missing from my office. Perkins had it confiscated. I threatened to go to Richards–” Moss broke off. He took a breath. “Perkins was a little too happy to inform me that Richards was in a car bombing. Greevy was in charge. Greevy didn’t respect my findings.  I was dead in the water. Perkins suggested I go back to work, there was filing to do.”

“Oh, Merriweather.”

“I lost it. I was over his desk with my hands around his throat before it became a conscious thought to do so. When it did, I thought ‘what the hey’ and squeezed harder. Then I popped him one in the face and he fired me. I was duly escorted out of the Federal Building under much force...” Moss shook his head. “That jackass,” he said quietly. He looked at her. “He had me blacklisted. I couldn’t find a job in my chosen profession, and I’m worthless at anything else. I fell into a deep hole, Martha. I stayed there for several years.”

Martha felt his hand tighten on hers. Then he let go. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

“I’ve been carrying this with me ever since the day I left,” he said reaching inside the folds of leather. His fingertips reappeared holding a diamond engagement ring. The fire of the stone caught the light in the room and set it into dancing motion. A motion matched only by Martha’s heart. The surprise and shock left her speechless.

“I fully intended to ask you to be my wife upon my return. But when Perkins fired me...first there was that deep well of despair to overcome. Then there was the problem of being nothing, having nothing.  I felt worthless. I couldn’t very well ask you to be my wife and not be able to support you. And I couldn’t ask you to live with me at my sister’s until I got my life straightened out again. My pride kept me away, Martha. My damn pride.” Moss surprised her by chuckling gently to himself. “When Henry pulled some strings to get me the job at Highway, I was so desperately afraid we’d meet again, me with a ticket book in hand and you thinking up one of your excuses for speeding. That, Martha, has been my unholy terror for the last six years.”

At that Martha laughed. Her eyes began to water heavily at her attempts to stifle the laughter escaping through the pain.

“Shh-h-hh, settle down,” Moss said. “You’ll bust a stitch.”

“You fool,” she said quietly. “Money would never have been an issue. I have plenty of that. What Gordon left me would have been ample. We’d never have had to move in with your sister.”

“I could not live on the money of another man, Martha. A man has to be able to support his wife. It’s just the way it is.”

“You’re right. It was your damn pride that kept you away. Is it still?”

Moss took her hand in his. He pulled it close to his lips and kissed the knuckles of each finger, one by one, tenderly. Then he placed the ring on her finger.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’ve wasted too much time already.”

Martha stared at him. Again her eyes watered, but the pain of her injuries didn’t cause these tears. 

“Martha,” Moss said quietly, keeping his voice low. “Will you marry me? For better or worse, sickness and health, ‘till death does part us?”

Martha glanced at the ring on her finger, then Moss. “In your line of work that’s not much of a commitment.”

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“That depends. Will the new evidence get you back your job at the agency?”

“I have an appointment in Washington with Hoover himself on Tuesday to discuss Perretti’s log as well as our notes from the Blackney mess. We’ll see.”

“But it looks like it may happen?”

Moss nodded. “I think it is pretty likely considering Perkins was heavily discredited. Does that bother you?”

“You mean would I be bothered by wondering if you’ll be shot from one day to the next?”

“Yes.”

Martha smiled.

“It’s what I do, Martha. Are you asking me to give that up?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Your job is what makes you, you. It’s your zest for life and your living on life’s edge that I love about you. I wouldn’t ask you to give up your essence for me. I’d be disappointed with the results. I love you the way you are.” She looked at him closely. “I never stopped loving you. Besides, you’ve just finished crawling out of that well of despair, I’m not about to be the one to push you back into it.”

“I guess that brings us back to the eternal question.”

“What’s that?”

“Was your answer a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

Martha’s fingers gripped Moss’s. She smiled kindly at him, her eyes revealing the love that never died. Not even after thirteen years. “That’s a ‘yes,’ Mort.”

He frowned. “Mort?”

“It’s what you prefer.”

Moss leaned in and kissed her lips, careful of her bandages. “I’m going to do my best to make you happy, lady, that I promise.”

“You already have,” Martha answered him with a smile. “You came back. Just keep doing that and I’ll remain happy.”

Moss squeezed her hand.

“That reminds me,” Martha said after a while. “Robert and Elly are about to be wed upstairs, in Kelly’s room. He was going to come down and get me, but since you are here we can save him a trip.”

“So they’re going to do it here, huh?”

“The child insisted.”

“It’s a good idea. Elly went through a very rough time this afternoon. She shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“There’s a wheelchair over at the nurse’s station. Tell her I’m ready to go upstairs. Robert already arranged it with them.”

© Copyright 2025 C J Driftwood. All rights reserved.