Hardy Boys - Case 03 - Cult of Crime

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UChapter U1

HE WANDERED AIMLESSLY as night fell on the New York City streets. The

growling in his stomach reminded him of how long it had been since he'd eaten last.

Though tall, he stooped when he walked, and even when trying to beg money from

passersby, he could no longer look other people in the eye.

Like many other teenagers who had left home and come to the city, he owned nothing

but the clothes on his back. And he was homeless, with nowhere to go.

He searched for a place to spend the night. He had no money to spend on a hotel, and

he had learned long ago that if he went to a shelter, the authorities would learn his age

and his name and send him home.

He hoped he could find a doorway or an alley

way with a cardboard box to sleep in, but he was wary of the other people who slept on

the streets. They didn't like strangers, and choosing a spot that one of them had already

chosen could get him beaten, or even killed. He kept walking.

The bells were what startled him. It seemed strange to him that something so beautiful

could be heard in a neighborhood of rundown buildings and vacant lots, where honest

people didn't come out at night, and where thieves and rats and insects crawled the

streets.

But there they were. Rhythmically they grew louder, then softer, then louder again, like

some low, lovely song, and he found himself drawn to them.

He was almost at the building before he realized it. The building rose out of the slums

like a beacon, and men and women-boys and girls, really, as none of them were older

than he was chanted and swayed both inside it and on the street in front of it.

The men wore white tunics tied at the waist with a sash and long, white slacks that

reached down to the cloth sandals on their feet. The women had scarves wrapped around

their heads and wore long, white gowns covering them from shoulder to ankle.

They were happy, all of them. He could see it in their faces. They danced in the glow

of the neon lights on the front of the building, the lights that read Mission.

It was a church, unlike any he had ever seen in the little town of Bayport.

He wanted to back away, to run, but the smell of food wafted out of the building. He

inhaled hungrily, and on his stomach's command, his feet marched forward. He moved

out of the shadows and into the light.

The dancing stopped and the bells died. Everyone was looking at him.

He felt awkward. These people in their pure white clothes were everything he was not.

He ran a filthy hand through his brown hair, and grime fell from it. Again he wanted to

run, but the stares and the scent of food sapped him of strength, and without even

thinking, he reached out his hands.

"Please," he croaked, and he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. What right did

he have to expect their help or to share their food?

He didn't even have to look in their eyes to know what would be there: the same disgust

and fear he had seen in the eyes of everyone he had ever asked for help since he came to

the city. He hated that look.

A young woman touched him gently on the shoulder.

She was smiling serenely, and on her face he saw none of the fear he had expected.

Instead there was kindness. If was in her eyes and in her touch, and for the first time since

leaving home, he felt warm inside. He felt almost as if he had come home again.

"You're tired," she said, and he nodded mutely. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her

skin was smooth and white. There was peace in the graceful way she moved, and her

outstretched hand seemed to offer him that peace. "You can sleep in the mission tonight.

And have plenty of food. Would you like some supper?"

Before he could answer, the others surrounded him. They laughed and smiled and

slapped him gently on the back, as if he were an old friend. He nodded fiercely and

smiled back, and before he knew it, they were all going into the building.

"What's your name?" he asked the woman. His throat hurt, and he realized that he had

barely spoken since arriving in the city.

“Chandra," she replied.

"Chandra," he repeated. “I thought you were American, but that name sounds-"

"Indian," she cut in. HI used to have another name, but that was before I received the

Rajah's peace."

Inside, the building was almost empty. He could smell food coming from somewhere-a

kitchen, probably-but in the main room he saw nothing but rows and rows of woven

flaxen mats, with a wooden bowl set in front of each. One by one, and one on each mat,

the boys and girls sat down, crossing their legs underneath them.

Chandra led him to an empty mat and then sat on the mat next to it.

"The Rajah's peace?" he said, looking at her

with suspicion. “This isn't one of those crazy cults, is it? I don't want to get hooked up

with that kind of thing. "

Chandra smiled at him again, and the smile washed away his fears. “Don't worry,

brother. We make no one stay against his will. When you are fed and rested, you can

return to the world if you like. But I pray that the Rajah's peace will bless you, too."

A large lump of rice dropped into his bowl, dumped there by a boy who carried a large

pot and a ladle. He reached down to scoop it into his mouth, but Chandra put a hand on

his wrist and kept him from raising it again.

"Not yet," she said. ..We have to wait, but not long. Do you like the city?"

He sunk his head to his chest and took a deep breath. He could feel tears welling up in

his eyes.

"I hate it," he said.

"But you can't go home," she replied. It was a statement, not a question. I came to the

city like you once, and I ended up like you. One thing saved me."

"What's that?"

"The Rajah." Her eyes seemed to glow as she spoke the name. “He has a place far from

here, out in the country. It's a place where we return to the natural way, where we can be

cleansed of the evil of the city and of this society."

Chandra stared straight into his eyes, and her fingers brushed his cheek. For a moment he

felt

as if his heart would stop. "You can go there, if you like," she continued. "Our bus leaves

in the morning."

"I don't know," he replied. There was suspicion in his voice, but she didn't seem to

mind.

"Be calm," she said. "We're happy, and we only want you to be happy. You want to be

happy, don't you?"

"Well. . ." He sighed and thought of his days on the street. He remembered the cold

and the hunger and the scornful looks. Finally he admitted, "Yes."

"The Rajah can make you happy," Chandra said. "You don't have to stay. You can

leave any time you want. But if you really want to be happy, all you have to do is get on

that bus."

"Well, well. What have we here?" a deep voice boomed above him. He looked up to

see a golden haired man wrapped in gold-and-scarlet robes. The man gazed down at him

with fire in his eyes.

"Who's he?" he murmured to Chandra. She bowed where she sat, her face to the floor

and her arms outstretched before her.

"Vivasvat, the right hand of the Rajah," she whispered. "All glory to Vivasvat."

A strong hand gripped his collar and lifted him up, and he found himself gawking at

the man in scarlet and gold. "This filthy boy has no place in the Rajah's temple!"

Vivasvat shouted. The room grew silent. "He is unclean." Then Vivasvat shook him, and

dirt flaked off

him and fell on the floor. The others began to laugh, and Vivasvat grinned and let him go.

"Unclean things cannot stand the light of the Rajah's truth. Take him upstairs and bathe

him,"

Vivasvat ordered two boys who sat nearby. "Burn his clothes and give him our finest

garments to wear. For only when he is purified are we pure, and only then shall we eat

the Rajah's Food."

The boys each took him by an arm and began to hustle him out of the room. They had

almost reached a door leading to stairs when Vivasvat's voice boomed again.

"Boy!" he said. "What is your name?" "Frank," he replied. "Frank Hardy."

Then they whisked him through the door and up the steps.

Chapter 2

WHEN THE BUS pulled away from the building the next morning, Frank Hardy was on

it. He was dressed as all the others were dressed, and anyone would have mistaken him

for one of the Rajah's followers, except that his hair was-thick and full while theirs had

been cut short.

Long ago, the bus had been a school bus, but the Rajah's followers had transformed it.

They'd painted it, and slogans praising the Rajah were written all over the walls. Smiling,

happy faces beamed all around him.

This is where I have to be careful, Frank thought. A dinner and a breakfast that were

heavy on starch, new clothes, getting up early in the morning. They never let me out

of their sight, and they try to keep me involved in their activities. They want to break

down my defenses. I

can't let them. For Holly's sake, I can't let them.

"Let's pass the time with a sing-along," a jolly voice said. Cheers greeted the

suggestion. Slowly someone started singing a familiar melody, and the song sped up as

more people joined in.

Chandra, seated in front of him, turned around. "Join in, Frank," she said. "It's fun."

He smiled and nodded. Blot it out, he told himself. Don't play their mind games. Think

about something else. Try to remember what you're trying to do, how you got here.

"Join in, Frank," Chandra repeated, and immediately other voices chimed in, crying,

"Join in, Frank. Join in."

In his mind, he drifted away, while his lips began to mouth the words of the song. And

without realizing it, he began to smile. In his mind, Frank Hardy could see his family's

house in Bayport. It was an old house, built around the turn of the century, but it was

large and warm in a way that more modem buildings never were. It was home. He and his

brother, Joe, had grown up there, as had their father, the famous detective Fenton Hardy,

and his father before him.

Was it only a week since Frank had been home? It seemed as if years had passed since

the morning Emmett Strand had come to their door.

The weather had been unseasonably hot, and Frank, a light sleeper at the best of times,

tossed and turned in his bed all night. He had dozed on

and off for hours, getting up now and then to play a game of chess with his computer in

the hopes that it would tire him out.

Someone was moving about downstairs. Frank knew it wasn't a burglar, because the

alarms hadn't gone off. He had put in the security system himself, so he knew the alarms

worked. More likely, the "prowler" was either Joe or his father, who had been out of town

on a case.

Frank felt like going downstairs for a chat, but that wouldn't help him sleep. He

pressed his face into his pillow and closed his eyes.

He was finally drifting off when a loud pounding on the front door of the house jarred

him awake again. He looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. 5:03 A.M. No one

comes around at this time of morning, he thought. He leaped out of bed and threw on his

robe. Not unless there's trouble.

Frank heard the front door creak open. Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor of the

foyer by the door. He opened the door to his room and jumped back.

Joe was on the other side of the door. He was an inch shorter than Frank, and his

blond hair was matted down on his head. Though a year younger than his brother, Joe

was the huskier of the two. In the dim light of the hall, his blue eyes gleamed with

surprise. They had both startled each other.

"What are you doing out here, Joe?" Frank

whispered. He sighed with relief. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"I can't sleep," Joe replied. "It's too hot, and I had this funny feeling that something

was going to happen. It looks like I was right. Dad got home half an hour ago and called

Mr. Strand. He just came over."

"Emmett Strand? The banker?"

"Right," Joe said through a yawn. "And since I couldn't sleep, I sneaked downstairs to

find out what Dad was up to these days. I think he's been doing some work for Mr.

Strand, but it sounded like Dad couldn't finish the case."

Frank blinked with surprise. "That's not like Dad. Let's-try to find out what's going on."

Quietly they slipped down the hall, passing their mother's room and then their Aunt

Gertrude's. Both women were sleeping soundly. The boys crept down the stairway to the

main floor, trying hard to keep the old steps from creaking.

From the stairs they could see that a desk lamp was on in their father's office. Mr.

Strand was there, too, pacing back and forth and dabbing the sweat from his face with a

handkerchief. His eyes were wide and dulled with worry, and frustration and fear could

be heard in his voice.

In all the years Frank had known Emmett Strand, he had never seen him display the

slightest uneasiness. Mr. Strand ran his life as he ran his business-with clear logic and

very little emotion-and that style had made him one of the top

bankers on the East Coast. Not even when his wife died, leaving him to raise their infant

daughter alone, did Strand let his emotions run away with him.

"Maybe I should have been more like you," Strand was saying as the Hardys moved

closer to the door. His voice cracked as he spoke. "Your boys turned out all right. Isn't

there anything we can do?"

"I'm afraid not, Emmett," Fenton Hardy replied. "And there's nothing the police can do,

either. Holly's of age now, which means you can't control her anymore. We can always

hope she'll change her mind, but in the meantime, you'd better protect yourself."

Holly? Frank was surprised. She was Strand's daughter, and she and Frank had grown

up together. Before he'd met Callie Shaw, he had even thought that they might fall in love

one day. Apparently she was now in some kind of trouble-trouble so bad that even his

father couldn't get her out of it.

"What do you mean, protect myself?" Emmett Strand asked.

"I wish I didn't have to bring this up," Mr. Hardy said. "But keep in mind that Holly

hasn't simply run away from home. She has joined a cult. This man who runs it, the

Rajah, demands that his followers turn over all their worldly goods to him. That's the first

step on their path to 'enlightenment.' "

"Hah!" Strand snorted. "If he bates worldly goods so much, why does he have a fleet of

Cadillacs? He's a con man, pure and simple."

"Maybe so, but that's not the point."

"What is the point, Fenton?"

"The point is, Emmett," Mr. Hardy replied, "that you've made millions in banking.

Suppose something should happen to you. Who'd inherit the money and everything else

you own?"

There was a long pause as Strand sank into a chair. Finally he replied, "Holly, of

course."

"And in her present frame of mind, I think she'd turn it all over to the Rajah," Fenton

Hardy went on. "Everything you worked for all these years would fje in the Rajah's

hands. You've got to cut Holly out of your will, at least until she comes home."

"I can't!" Strand exclaimed in anguish. "She's my only child. I can't cut her off just like

that, even though she has cut me out of her life. There must be something else we can

do."

"Face facts," said Fenton Hardy gently. "Holly is living at the Rajah's commune

upstate. If there was a chance that you could convince her to come home, I wouldn't have

to suggest this. But I know they won't even let you in to talk to her. I traced her up there,

but I can't go in and get her without breaking the law, and neither can the police. "

"The law! The law protects that. . . that thief! Doesn't the law care about my daughter?"

Hardy patted his friend's shoulder, trying to comfort him. "I know this is hard for you,

Emmett-"

Emmett Strand stood up abruptly, shaking off the hand. "I've been a bad father, but I

won't abandon my daughter when she needs me most. I won't do what you're suggesting!"

"Emmett, please!"

"I won't, Fenton! And it doesn't matter if you refuse to rescue Holly. I'll find someone

who will. I'll do it myself if I have to!" With that, Emmett Strand turned on his heel and

stormed out of Fenton Hardy's office, and out of the house.

On the stairs, Frank whispered, "Let's get back to our rooms before Dad finds out

we've been eavesdropping."

But Joe stood where he was, clenching his fists, his lips curled in anger. "That Rajah

character is stealing Holly's life just like the Assassins stole Iola's. Maybe he's not killing

her like Iola was killed, but she's lost to us just the same. I wish there was something we

could do to help her."

Frank Hardy rubbed his chin, thinking over what he had heard. "Maybe there is," he

said. "Maybe there is."

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Joe asked Frank as the train carried

them toward New York City. "This cult stuff gets

pretty strange. Suppose you knuckle under to them, the way Holly did."

"It won't happen," Frank replied. He wore old, crumpled clothes, and dirt smudged his

face. "I've studied how cults work and how they brainwash the kids who fall into their

hands. But those kids desperately want the approval the cult gives them. I don't. As long

as I keep my mind on what I'm there for, they won't have any power over me."

Joe frowned. "I still don't like it. We should just bust in there and get her out."

"We can't. It's illegal," Frank said. "Besides, when I get in there to talk to her, I'm sure I

can convince her to leave with me. If she leaves of her own free will, then we won't be

breaking the law."

"If you get in, they’re going to be suspicious if you just walk up and ask to go to their

commune.”

Frank smiled mischievously. "I don't need to ask them. They'll ask me. I know how

their minds work. Once I'm in, they'll want to get me somewhere where the only

influence on me is the Rajah, where they can watch my every move and make sure I'm

trying to be like them. And the only place for that is the commune."

"I still don't like it," Joe said, scowling. "What if something goes wrong?"

"That's why you're backing me up, little

brother." What could go wrong? Frank thought. I'm wise to their tricks, and if I don't fall

for them, they'll have no power over me.

It had seemed like such sound reasoning at the time....

"Frank!" Chandra said, shaking him. His eyes snapped open, and he was aware that the

singing had stopped. Every eye in the bus was on him, demanding his attention.

"You mustn't sleep, Frank," she continued. Her smile turned gentle again. "It isn't time

for that. To be enlightened, we must become truly awake, and to do that we must fight

'sleep, which is the enemy of wisdom."

"I'm sorry," he said, and to his astonishment, he was sorry. He didn't know the people

he was with, but what they thought of him was becoming important to him. He studied

their faces. There was a joy and serenity in them that he had not expected.

They couldn't all be faking it, he thought. Maybe they do know something we don't.

Maybe they have connected with a new spirituality.

He shook himself suddenly. I'm falling for it I knew exactly what to expect and I'm still

falling for it. A quiet fear began to gnaw at him. He tried to remember things like Bayport

and Joe, but already those things seemed somewhat remote.

"Are you all right, Frank?" Chandra said with concern.

"I'm just feeling a little sick," he replied. Before he could say anything more, she was

calling for the driver to stop the bus. It skidded to a halt on the gravel siding of the road,

and Frank was hustled off, surrounded by cultists who blocked every avenue of escape.

"Get some air," Chandra ordered. "When you're feeling well enough, we'll continue."

If the truth were known, Frank felt better already.

For he had seen, a quarter of a mile or so down the road in back of them, a black van. It

was the van that the Bayport Mall Merchants had presented to the Hardys after the Dead

on Target case, when Frank and Joe had thwarted a terrorist bombing and assassination

attempt in the heart of the mall. Now, to Frank, it was proof that Joe was really there after

all, watching out for him.

As Frank watched, a small car pulled in front of the black van and stopped dead,

forcing the van to stop as well. Two men hopped out of the car. They were dressed in the

white tunics and slacks that the Rajah's followers wore. But the sunlight glinted off the

guns in their hands.

Chapter 3

JOE HARDY DROVE the black van down winding mountain roads. Ever since the

Rajah's bus had left the city, it had traveled farther and farther into the hills-and he'd had

more and more trouble following it inconspicuously.

The van was intended as the Hardys' mobile base of operations. Frank had crammed it

with state-of-the-art surveillance and communications equipment, a portable crime lab,

and a small but powerful computer. Joe had overhauled the van itself to prepare it for

tough action at high speeds.

But now the van crawled along, trying to stay within sight but just out of view of the

rickety old bus ahead. Joe clenched his teeth in frustration. Make a run for it, he urged

silently. Make your move! I want some action! At this leisurely pace,

it was hard to remember the real danger facing Frank.

At first, Joe didn't hear the tires grinding the road behind him. The long drive had

dulled his senses. Then his eye caught sight of the car growing larger in his rearview

mirror, and his muscles tensed for action.

He glanced at the mirror on the other door. An identical car was coming around his far

side. Alert, he took in every sight and sound, calculating the danger.

Something didn't add up. Something was wrong.

Ahead, the bus had stopped, and the passengers were getting off. At that distance, he

couldn't tell which of them was Frank, but there didn't seem to be any trouble. The

Rajah's followers milled around the bus, stretching, getting some air. But the cars were

even with him now, speeding to pass him.

"Pull over!" the driver to his left shouted. It was a cultist, and the pure white of his

clothes clashed sharply with the cold black metal of the Smith & Wesson Magnum .38 on

the seat next to him. The driver of the other car waved an Uzi submachine gun in the air.

"Pull over!" he also cried. "Get out!"

Joe smiled. A flip of the switch, and shields would cover the windows, making the

black van bulletproof. Then it would be easy to run the two cars off the road. He knew

they were no threat to

him, as long as he stayed inside. Once he left the safety of the van, though, his chances of

survival would plunge.

But there was Frank to consider. If I show these guys what I can do, it could blow

Frank's cover, Joe thought. Maybe I can bluff them.

He fingered the shield switch, and then, as the cars moved in front of him to block the

road, he hit another switch instead. Gears ground, circuits clicked and whirred, and

paneling slid down from the ceiling to cover the sophisticated electronics within the van.

By the time Joe stopped at the side of the road, the inside of the van looked the same as

any other customized van owned by half the teenagers in America.

The Rajah's gunmen, their weapons aimed at Joe, bolted from their cars, ran to the van,

and flung its doors open.

"Hey, dude:' Joe mumbled. He smiled stupidly at the gunman. "What's happenin'? Rad

day for a ride, isn't it? I mean, like, totally awesome."

"Shut up," the man with the Magnum ordered. He clamped a. hand around Joe's neck

and yanked him from the driver's seat. Joe landed on the road-hard.

The pain maddened him. His eyes flared with anger, and, instinctively, he clenched his

fists and started to rise to fight his attacker. Then he remembered Frank. Neither gunman

had seen his reaction or how ready for a fight Joe was, and for

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摘要：

UChapterU1HEWANDEREDAIMLESSLYasnightfellontheNewYorkCitystreets.Thegrowlinginhisstomachremindedhimofhowlongithadbeensincehe'deatenlast.Thoughtall,hestoopedwhenhewalked,andevenwhentryingtobegmoneyfrompassersby,hecouldnolongerlookotherpeopleintheeye.Likemanyotherteenagerswhohadlefthomeandcometothecity...

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