Cult of Crime (3 page)

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.

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 your 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.

He was the Rajah.

“Him,” said a girl’s voice. She was partly hidden in the shadows of the house, but her delicate hand was visible in the light from the window as she pointed at the bus.

The Rajah looked out at Frank Hardy, who was surrounded by the cheerful cultists. “You know him?”

Holly Strand stepped out of the shadows. Her long auburn hair fell freely down her back, and her slender face was marred, only by the sadness in her eyes. “His name is Frank Hardy,” she said emotionlessly. “I grew up with him. His father’s a detective or something. “

The Rajah stroked his chin. “The one who came around, asking questions about you, yes. And now his son … “

Suddenly he swept Holly into his arms and held her close, pressing her head against his chest. His reddish brown beard blended into Holly’s hair, the two colors matching perfectly. His eyes were raised upward, and tears formed at the edges of them. “Of all these, you are my favorite, Yami. All these have come to me, but you alone I sought. ” “I know, Great Rajah. Thank you.”

“Then” for what youre about to do, you are forgiven,” he continued. “Go, and make sure he doesn’t see you until the proper time.” He released her, and she backed away, pressing her fingers against her tear streaked cheeks. “I don’t want to go,” she sobbed.

“Go,” he said. “It is my will.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

In the empty room, Holly Strand felt terribly alone. Since she had come to the commune, she had been free of the terrible emotions that had always confused and troubled her. Now they flooded back, and even though she fought them, she could feel the fear and doubt.

She clenched her-fists until her fingernails left red marks on her palms. The effort steadied her. She knew she had no right to doubt the Rajah’s plans, and now she was filled with horror at her own weakness.

Choking back her rage, she ran from the room and out of the house, letting the back door swing wide open. She knew she must go to her lodge and pray until the Rajah needed her.

Joe Hardy caught the door and slipped inside the Rajah’s house before letting it close.

He was still amazed at the ease with which he had infiltrated the commune. Dressed as one of them, he had simply walked in across the fields.

No one had batted an eye. He suspected that there was something about his outfit, taken from one of the men who attacked him on the road that identified him as a member of the Rajah’s special guard.

Joe grinned briefly as he thought about the two gunmen. He’d dumped them in the woods off the highway with their hands and feet loosely bound. Clothes do make-or unmake-the man, he thought.

Whatever the reason for the success of his disguise, no one had stopped or questioned him. After spotting Frank playing tetherball, he had briefly checked the lodges. There was nothing peculiar about them, he thought, except how people could stand to live in them. The farmhouse was the only building he hadn’t checked, and for a few moments, the locks had stymied him.

Then the door had opened, and suddenly Joe was in.

The house was not what he expected. The room that the Rajah and Holly had stood in was bare, except for what looked like a small altar in one corner and kneeling mats on the floor. It was the Rajah’s private temple, barren and austere.

But in the next, soundproofed room Joe found a wide-screen television hooked up to a stereo videocassette recorder. A complete, state-of - the - art stereo system sat next to it. Records and videotapes were racked along an entire wall. In the middle of the room, with a good view of the TV screen and halfway between two six-foot-tall stereo speakers, was a reclining chair.

On the wall opposite the record racks was another door, leading another room, and Joe could hear an excited Voice shouting there. He put his ear against the door and listened.

“We’ve got a good thing going here!” the voice cried. “Why should we risk it on this fool scheme? Just throw him out. There’s nothing anyone can do to us. You know that!”

“It is my will,” a deep, soft voice replied. It was the Rajah. “Do not question my will.”

“Boy, you’re really getting into this godhead stuff, aren’t you?” the first voice said. “If I hadn’t found you and come up with this scam, you’d still be hustling fortunes at Fourth of July sideshows.”

“You are wrong;” the Rajah said calmly.

“There was no life before the Rajah, and you have always been Vivasvat.”

Vivasvat exhaled sharply. “Mikey, Mikey,” he said. “Remember me? This is Shakey Leland you’re talking to. Okay, so we don’t kick the guy out. Let’s just kill him and bury him in the woods someplace. Nobody knows he’s here. Nobody’ll know the difference.”

Now the Rajah’s voice grew enraged. “Get out!” he ordered. “The boy is a gift. He will soon do our bidding, and he is not to be harmed! Do not speak to me of murder.”

“Oh, I’ll leave,” Vivasvat shouted. “But we take care of the kid my way, and don’t you dare lecture me. You’ve murdered, too, Mikey. You can call it penance or justice or divine will if you want, but it’s still murder, so spare me the Piety!”

Suddenly the door opened, and Joe and Vivasvat stood face-to-face. Vivasvat’s lips curled with rage, and he aimed a pistol at Joe. Desperately, Joe grabbed for his own gun, the Magnum he had taken from Bobby, but Vivasvat jabbed his hand upward. The pistol butt smashed into Joe’s jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.

THE HAZE PARTED slowly. Joe Hardy wanted to clear the mist from his eyes with a wave of his hand, but neither hand could move. He blinked instead, and the mist finally evaporated.

Joe lay on his stomach on the floor of the stereo room. His clothes were gone, and he shivered as the temperature in the valley dipped with the dusk.

Something scratched at his wrists, and he realized that his hands had been bound behind his back. A sandaled foot stood directly in his line of vision. The Rajah, cruel and majestic, was seated at the end of the room.