Cult of Crime

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “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 rear-view 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 his brother’s sake, he choked back his anger. But if the chance came to use it, he would gladly let it out.

  The man with the Uzi poked his head into the van and looked around. “Nothing here,” he said.

  “Looks like he’s just some kid, out on a joy ride.”

  “I don’t believe that,” the other gunman replied grimly. Squinting his tiny, dark eyes into pinpoints, he glared at Joe. “He’s hiding something.”

  He seized Joe under the arm and hauled him to his feet. Jutting his hand out sharply, he knocked Joe back against the van and lifted the Magnum so that its muzzle was an inch from Joe’s nose. “What are you hiding, kid? Why are you following the bus? You’ve got about thirty seconds to spill your guts before I do it for you.”

  The other gunman looked on in horror. “You crazy, Bobby? He’s nobody! Let him go!”

  “Look at him!” the one called Bobby cried.

  “He’s not afraid. He’s not even sweating. This guy’s used to danger and plenty of it, and that makes him too dangerous to live.”

  Joe felt his jaw tightening. The anger was welling up inside him again. He tensed his muscles, waiting for the time to make his move.

  “You’re paranoid,” the other gunman said. “We kill him, and it’ll be trouble for everyone.”

  “I’ve got that figured,” Bobby replied. “We get one of the kids - let’s make it a girl-to claim he tried to kidnap her. When it turns out he had a gun, the cops’ll know we had to shoot him to defend her.”

  “I don’t have a gun,” Joe said calmly.

  “When they find you, you will.” Bobby’s eyes bored deep into Joe’s. “Is that a bit of fear I see there? Oh, I hope so. That’s just how I want to remember you.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Bobby, no!” screamed the man with the Uzi. Bobby turned his head and started to growl a response.

  Joe’s fist slammed up, ramming Bobby’s gun hand aside. A shot roared into the air, and before Bobby knew what was happening, Joe grabbed his wrist. He spun the gunman as he forced his arm down, then twisted behind him and locked an elbow around Bobby’s neck, pressing at his wind-pipe.

  The gun was still in Bobby’s hand, but Joe’s hand was wrapped around the gunman’s, forcing his arm to point in whichever direction Joe wanted. At the moment it was pointed directly at the man with the Uzi.


  “Drop it,” Joe said. “Maybe you can still get me, but you’ll have to go through your pal to do it.”

  The man with the Uzi licked his lips anxiously and fingered his gun. Joe tightened his grip on Bobby, and Bobby let out a moan then collapsed unconscious in Joe’s arms.

  Long seconds ticked by. No one moved. “Drop it and I’ll let youlive,” Joe said. “That’s a better deal than your pal would have given me. I’d rather not do anything we’ll both regret, but I will if I have to; and then you might not be around to regret it.

  “Drop it,” he repeated softly.

  The Uzi slid from the man’s fingers and dropped into the dirt.

  Joe pried the Magnum from Bobby’s fingers and let him slide to the ground. Taking careful aim, he flagged the other gunman over to the van.

  “You said you wouldn’t kill me,” the gunman whimpered. He glanced over first one shoulder and then the other, looking for somewhere to run, then finally staggered to the van, defeated.

  “I just need you under wraps for a while,” Joe said. “It’ll be a little uncomfortable, but you’ll be all right. Oh. There’s just one other thing. “Take off your clothes.”

  Frank’s eyes opened wide at the sound of the shot, and his muscles tensed. Holly and the Rajah fled from his mind, and all he could think about was his brother, alone, facing an unknown enemy.

  He could see nothing of what was happening behind the black van. He started to run, and all of a sudden found a half-dozen of the Rajah’s followers blocking his path. In their midst was Chandra.

  “It’s time to get back on the bus, Frank,” she said. Her voice was calm but stern, her tone indicating she was used to being obeyed.

  “But something’s going on back there,” Frank said. As soon as he was finished speaking, he clamped his mouth shut. What could he say?

  Rescuing his brother would blow his cover, but he had to find out what was happening. “There was a shot, wasn’t there? Someone may be hurt.”

  Sighing, Chandra turned toward the black van. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Is anyone injured back there?”

  A figure in white stepped out from behind the van. “No,” he shouted. “Some engine trouble, that’s all. We’ll have him out of here in no time.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “All praise to the Rajah.”

  “All praise to the Rajah,” the cultists who milled around Frank chanted in unison. Then, single file, they climbed back aboard the bus.

  Almost visibly, the resistance melted out of Frank’s body, his sudden rebelliousness replaced by the gratefulness and meekness that had secured him a place as one of the Rajah’s followers. He joined in line and suppressed the grin that threatened to form on his lips, just as he had, swallowed the gasp that had almost escaped him moments before.

  “You mustn’t be so willful, Frank,” Chandra said as the ride got under way again. “Willfulness is what brought you down in your previous life.

  You must learn to control your own selfish desires and trust in the way of the Rajah.” “The Rajah is joy. The Rajah is peace. The Rajah loves us all,” said a blond girl seated next to him. Frank nodded. Bowing his head and closing his eyes tightly, he repeated her chant. But it was not those words that gave him a feeling of peace and warmth. It was others. In his head, he repeated the words of the white-garbed man who had yelled from the van.

  The words themselves were not important to him. He just wanted to hear them again and again, as best he could, for the words and the clothes were those of a Rajah devotee, but the voice was that of Joe Hardy.

  Chapter 4

  THE RAJAH’S COMMUNE had settled in a valley high in the Adirondack Mountains.

  Twin peaks guarded the valley, limiting travel to the one road that led into the commune.

  Though the legend was persistent among the Rajah’s followers that he had performed a miracle and created the valley himself, the land had been used for farming for three hundred years, and the cultists continued to farm the rich soil.

  Once a month, some of them traveled halfway down one of the mountains, to the small town of Pickwee, to trade their crops for other supplies.

  For the most part, they grew all of their own food and made all of their own tools.

  The Rajah had promised them a simple life, and what they did not have was considered unnecessary for that life. Even the housing was simple: a cluster of small log lodges, with the girls living in some of them and the boys living in the others. The lodges held only cots, with each lodge sleeping forty in tight quarters. No room for privacy, Frank thought. No room for individuality.

  But obviously, privacy and individuality were unimportant to the Rajah’s followers. Though they had nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a bed to sleep in at night, they were always laughing and smiling.

  If doubt or curiosity existed in the commune, Frank could see no sign of it. The Rajah’s followers were blissfully happy, happier than anyone Frank had ever known and happier than he’d ever thought anyone could be.

  His first day at the commune was uneventful. As the bus pulled in, the members stopped what they were doing and ran to meet it. Frank stepped down into a cheering mob, and a flurry of hands clutched and shook his, patting him on the shoulders and back, welcoming him.

  As others came off the bus, the crowd turned its attention to them. Only one boy stayed with Frank. He was sixteen at most, and though his flaming red hair recently had been cut short, it was starting to curl again as it grew out. His hair color and the many freckles that dotted his beaming face marked him as Irish-American. Despite Frank’s attempts to walk away from him, the boy kept pace, never breaking his smile for a moment and constantly staring into Frank’s eyes.

  “Frank, this is Kadji,” Chandra said after a few moments. “He’ll be your companion while you’re here.”

  Frank opened his mouth in surprise. “But I thought you - “

  Chandra cut him off. “I must return to the city, to give peace to other poor, lost souls. Kadji will help you find your place in the commune. He will always be here for you, and he will give you any help you need. Goodbye, Frank.”

  With that, Chandra turned and climbed aboard the bus. The motor started, and the bus rattled through the gate, to begin its long journey back to the city.

  “Don’t worry, Frank,” Kadji said cheerfully. “I remember how I felt when I first arrived. When the bus left, I was scared ‘that I’d be trapped here. But I like it here, and so will you.”

  “She said I could leave if I wanted to. And I thought she liked me …”

  Kadji nodded. “She loves you, Frank. We all love you, and we all love each other, in a pure and spiritual way. Anyway, if you still want to, you’ll be able to leave when the bus gets back in a few days…”

  Frank gazed around the compound, trying to look relaxed and fascinated. In reality, he was remembering every detail and studying every face.

  The sleeping lodges seemed scattered at first, but as Frank walked around, he - realized that they were set up to look as if they were all radiating from a large, old farmhouse. Though rustic, it had obviously been remodeled recently, with one way windows and high security locks on the doors. “Who lives there?” Frank asked.

  “That is his home,” Kadji replied. The smile faded from his lips, and he cast his eyes down and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I am not worthy to speak his name.”

  The Rajah, Frank mused. Cultists passed him, two by two, always a girl with a girl or a boy with a boy, but none of them went near the house. He scanned their faces. Holly Strand was not among them. “Does he ever come out?” Frank asked. “Do you ever see him?”

  “He appears, though his holiness is sometimes too much to look upon.” Kadji was barely breathing by then, and in between sentences, his lips moved wordlessly in prayer. “During the festival, during the name giving.”

  “During what?”

  “The festival when you will become one of us. He will give you you
r new name.”

  “Like Kadji?” Frank asked. “What’s your real name?”

  Kadji raised his head, smiling peacefully again. “My real name is Kadji. I had another name once, but that was my name in sin. It’s dead and forgotten, like my old life. “

  Uh-huh, Frank thought. “The people I see,” he said, “are they everyone who lives here, Kadji? I thought the place was much bigger.”

  “Only some are here,” Kadji replied. “A few who have fully developed spirits are allowed to return to the outside world. Chandra was one of those. Some work in the fields, gathering crops. Some cook, some clean, and some wash clothing. Some are off playing games.”

  “Do they ever … ” He wasn’t sure how to ask without arousing Kadji’s suspicions. But he’s expecting me to be suspicious, Frank reasoned. I can ask anything, as long as I don’t seem to be looking for something specific. He’ll just try to ease my mind. “Does everyone ever get together at one time?”

  “At the name giving,” Kadji said. He stared deep into Frank’s eyes again, smiling his blank smile. “Everyone will come to greet you, Frank. Everyone wants to be your friend. You’ll see.”

  He pointed across the yard, to an area where the field had been partly cleared away. A pole was stuck in the ground there, and a ball hung from a rope attached to the top of the pole. Several of the Rajah’s followers were congregating around the pole.

  “There’s a tetherball game starting up, Frank,” Kadji said, with controlled excitement in his voice. “Do you like to play?”

  “Sure,” Frank said.

  “Oh, good! Let’s get in on the game.” He grabbed Frank by the elbow and pulled him toward the pole. “This will be fun. You’ll like it here, Frank. You really will.”

  Breaking into a light jog, to hurry to the game, Frank smiled at Kadji and said, “You know, I really think I will.” I’ll wait a few hours, and then tell them that I want to stay. They’ll bring everyone together for the name giving, Frank thought. And that’s where I’ll find Holly.

  On the other side of the one-way windows, a dark-eyed man watched as the recruits left the bus. He was taller than Frank and muscular as well, and he was dressed in a tunic and slacks like placid, the cultists, but his clothes were made of the finest purple silk. His face was narrow and bearded, with a strong Roman nose, and his heavy brows shadowed his eyes, giving him an air of mystery and power.