have been rather in the middle of the prison grounds. It extends out to the west, well under the walls of the original prison and into some very thick woods. Some made it to the Union lines from here.”
“Good for them.”
“Let me show you what I call the ‘mother’ of all the prisoners here.”
It was a large statue in marble. The engraving on it said it had been erected by the state of Michigan in memoriam for Michigan soldiers and sailors who had been prisoners here. Pine’s gaze was riveted by the other part of the monument. It was of a woman with a headpiece and long flowing robes who had her left arm draped over the top of the monument and her gaze downcast, as though in grief. This obviously was the “mother” Lamb had been referring to.
“That’s very moving,” said Pine in a low voice.
“There’s nothing like a mother’s love.”
“Or a mother’s grief,” added Pine quietly.
As they walked over to the cemetery he stopped at a spot and pointed out a row of graves. “These are the six leaders of the Raiders. You know about them?”
Pine shook her head.
“They were a group of prisoners who terrorized other prisoners.”
“And the guards did nothing?”
“There weren’t nearly enough guards to really control the prisoners. This place was like a shantytown you’d see in a third world country. So the prisoners were pretty much on their own.”
“So what happened?”
“This group called the Regulators rose up and took out the Raiders. Then Henry Wirz held a series of trials with the judges and juries being fellow prisoners. Most of the men convicted received light sentences, at least light by the standards back then. Stockade, thumbscrews, having to run a gauntlet where they were beaten with sticks. But the main six leaders, they were called the ‘chieftains’ who ran their own little gangs, were convicted and executed. And that’s where their graves are. They’re set off from the others to denote this.”
Pine studied the sunken plots of dirt. “It doesn’t take much for civilized people to become animals.”
“I guess you see a lot of that in your line of work.”
“More than I would like.”
She left the ranger there and ventured to the museum.
It was a large building that held a library and a film room, and told the story of American POWs from the Revolutionary War up to the present. This theme was filled in with exhibits and information about the capture of POWs, their living conditions, relationships among prisoners and their guards, escape attempts, and liberation of some POW camps. When she walked out of the place later Pine was both overwhelmed by the bravery shown by the POWs and depressed that a “civilized” world allowed such things to actually happen.
She stood outside in the growing heat as the sun rose overhead and the humidity picked up. Pine involuntarily glanced to her left at the rows of graves in the cemetery. The somberness of the place could not be overstated. And it was very likely that Mercy was also in a grave somewhere. Only not in a formal cemetery, but in a shallow hole in the middle of nowhere, which animals would have long since desecrated.
She touched her Glock and wished she could right this very minute shoot and kill whoever had taken Mercy. But that was not going to happen. She had to get there another way.
She got into her SUV and drove back across the road.
She wondered how long they would have to wait for the killer of Hanna Rebane to strike again.
As it turned out, it wouldn’t be long at all.
Chapter 25
PINE WAS USED TO GETTING PHONE CALLS at odd hours; that came with being an FBI agent.
When she heard Max Wallis’s voice and saw the time was two minutes past five in the morning, she sat straight up in bed and swung her feet to the floor.
“Where?” she said instantly.
He was too much of a veteran cop to ask how she knew.
“The cemetery. Across the road from you.”
Pine’s jaw slackened. “The National Historic Site? I was just there yesterday morning.”
“I’ll meet you at the front gate.”
It took her five minutes to dress. She didn’t wake Blum. There was no reason to do that right now. She could be filled in later. Pine was starting to regret even bringing Blum here. But then again she hadn’t anticipated a potential serial killer commencing operations in Andersonville, either.
She was out the front door of the Cottage a minute later, started her SUV,