She grabbed the bar and twisted it. It refused to come loose. Joe rolled onto his stomach.
The train was pulling to a stop. Holly knew the jolt of that final stop would jar Joe awake. She had to work fast.
But the metal bar wouldn’t cooperate. Holly braced herself against the door and twisted again.
The bar moved slightly. It was old, and the bolts holding it to the door were loose.
She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and wedged her hip between the door and the bar. Holding the bar in place with her hands, she threw her weight against the bar. The wood of the door cracked, then splintered.
Joe grumbled at the noise and shook his head, but his eyes stayed closed.
At that moment, the bar broke off in Holly’s hands. Catching her breath, she stood over Joe and with both hands raised the bar high over her head. “Goodbye, Joe,” she said. With all her might, she swung the bar down.
Chapter 12
SOMETHING WRAPPED AROUND Holly’s ankle and shoved it forward. As she fell back, she tried to scream, but a rough hand clapped over her mouth. The stench of rot filled her nostrils, making her sick. Her arms flapped wildly as she fell, and the iron bar flew from her hand and clattered across the boxcar floor. Joe shot up. The train lurched to a halt.
Cops, he thought as he saw the two men in the doorway. Train yards hired private guards to keep people off the freight trains. But the men he saw were ragged and unshaven. They looked as if they hadn’t slept indoors or eaten in days. Bums, he realized. One of them dragged Holly from the car as the other came inside and picked up the iron bar. “Money,” he said to Joe, and patted the bar against his palm. The bum spoke in a flat, dull voice. His eyes were dull, too, glazed over by hunger and hate. There was no reason or hope left in him. Joe didn’t move or speak.
“Money!” the bum repeated. He smashed the bar to the floor. Bits of wood flew up from the blow. Joe held his ground.
With a shout, the bum lunged at Joe and swung the iron bar. Joe rolled aside as the bar smashed the floor again. Balancing on his hands, Joe swung his feet around and kicked at the back of the bum’s knees. The bum toppled forward.
He caught himself on the iron bar. Without thinking, he flung the bar at Joe, dancing on one foot for a moment, trying to regain his balance. Then his feet spun out from under him, and he flopped like a rag doll onto the floor. A tiny groan sputtered from his lips.
Joe kicked the iron bar out of the car and leaped after it.
Half a car away, Holly wrestled with the other bum, trying to drive him away. It was no use. The bum was much stronger than she was. She dug her fingernails into-his cheeks, but the expression in the bum’s eyes didn’t change. Like the guy in the boxcar, he was beyond pain.
Joe grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and landed his fist as hard as he could in the bum’s belly. The bum doubled over and clutched his stomach. Something woke in his dead eyes, and he growled from his gut.
The bum straightened up as best as he could and threw a punch at Joe. Joe easily sidestepped it and brought both fists down onto the bum’s back. The bum sat down suddenly, whining and crying. Joe watched him carefully for a long moment, but the fight had gone out of the bum. He probably doesn’t even remember it, Joe realized, and he turned his attention to Holly.
She was kneeling on the ground, shivering with horror. Joe put his hands on her shoulders to help her up, but she wriggled out of his grasp.
“I’m all right,” Holly said. “Thanks for helping.”
“Those bums won’t bother us again,” Joe replied. He glanced around the train yard. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone else here. Any idea where we are?” She shrugged. “Come on, then,” Joe continued, and walked alongside the train.
A head bobbed through the space between two cars. Joe flattened himself against the side of the train, signaling to Holly to do the same. The footsteps on the other side of the train passed by and faded into the distance.
“Let’s get out of here,” Joe said. He grabbed Holly’s hand and pulled her into a run, they sprinted as fast as they could along the row of boxcars. A whistle pierced the air, and rapid footsteps began moving toward them. Joe glanced over his shoulder. No one was there, but he could hear more footsteps moving quickly in their direction. They’re running alongside the other trains, Joe thought. That’s why I can’t see them.
He concentrated, sorting out the footsteps. At least six men were after them. From the sound of it, there are four on our left side and two on our right. He might be able to take the two men by himself, but not before the others caught up. There was nowhere to go but forward.
Ahead, he could see the open field beyond the train yard. All they had to do was reach it and climb over the barbed-wire fence surrounding the yard and they were safe. Only a few more steps, he told himself. Just a few more steps.
A bald man with a baseball bat stepped out from behind the caboose and blocked their path.
“We’ve been waiting for you, boy,” he said with a toothless grin. He passed the bat back and forth from hand to hand. “A guy upstate alerted the yard crews all up and down the river that you were on this train, and he’s offering a lot of money to get you back.”
“Sheriff Keller,” Holly gasped. “He’s doing this for the Rajah.” She slowed to a fast walk. “We can’t make it.”
“Keep running,” Joe ordered. He lowered his head and butted into the man before he could swing the bat. Then he straightened up suddenly, flipping the man over his shoulder.
Holly froze in her tracks. A group of burly men rounded the next train and whooped at her. She whirled around. “Joe!”
“This way!” he shouted, and grabbed her hand again. They dashed back the way they’d come, with the herd of howling men in hot pursuit.
The four men Joe had heard moments earlier spilled through the gaps between the boxcars. Joe veered in the other direction, shoving Holly between two boxcars. The other two men who had been following them would be on the other side, he knew, but he hoped he could handle both of them. If nothing else, he could buy Holly time to escape.
He clenched his fists. Then he hurled himself into the open, hoping to catch the men by surprise. The surprise was on him.
The two men lay on the ground, unconscious.
“What happened to them?” Holly asked in bewilderment.
“Beats me,” Joe replied. But he knew. Whoever had knocked out the two men had acted silently and skillfully. And Joe could see no bruises on them, which indicated that their attacker had special talents for dealing with people.
There must be thousands of people like that in the world, he knew, but it was unlikely that any of them would be there at that time and willing to help them. There’s only one person it could be, he thought to himself. He couldn’t suppress a big grin. It was impossible, but it had to be true. Frank was alive!
“Joe!” Holly screamed again. More men were coming at them. Joe turned. Others were bearing down. It was too late to get away. The men circled them, surrounding them on all sides. Joe counted fourteen all together, coming closer and closer… He could stop three, maybe four at best, but the others would certainly get him. They were trapped. Frank, he wondered, where are you when I need you?
He bobbed up and down, looking over the shoulders of the approaching men, but Frank was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he had his reasons for wanting everyone to think he was dead.
“‘I’m sorry Holly,” Joe said as the men closed in. He clenched and raised his fists. “I let you down.”
He slugged the nearest attacker, a bearded man in a denim jacket, and the man toppled like an oak. A fist pounded against Joe’s jaw. He staggered back, dazed, and swung without connecting at a second man.
Another fist slammed his shoulder and a third his back.. Pain clouded his sight. Joe felt his hand strike something hard, but he couldn’t see what it was. He couldn’t see anything.
Joe’s body had taken over for his mind. He ignored the pain, swinging wil
dly as somewhere beyond the cloud around his mind, Holly screamed and screamed until her voice became a long, shrill howl that filled the world.
He was still swinging as the police cars pulled up, sirens blaring. The men scattered at the first sighting of the cars, but Joe kept swinging.
Slowly the cloud lifted from Joe’s mind. His arms, terribly tired, fell uselessly to his sides, and he gazed down. Five men lay at his feet. Holly was nearby, jumping up and down, frantically waving at the police.
He realized it was the scream of their sirens, not Holly’s screams that he had heard. He wanted to run again, but he knew that he and Holly could never escape the cars on foot. And maybe I shouldn’t, he thought. There’s only one person who could have called the police. Frank.
The cars screeched to a halt in front of him, forming a line. As policemen leaped from their cars and took shelter behind them, they took careful aim at Joe. He nodded and sat down on the ground, hands behind his head. A policeman and his partner approached Joe slowly, keeping their guns carefully trained on him. Another policeman led Holly to the cars.
“You’re Joe Hardy?” the first policeman asked.
“Yes,” Joe replied as the policeman helped him to his feet. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet,” he replied. “I’ve got orders to return you to Bayport for questioning. Where’s your brother?”
“He was in the caboose the last I saw him,” Joe said.
“Check it out, Matt,” the policeman said. His partner ran to the caboose and disappeared inside it for a few minutes. Finally he popped his head out a window and yelled, “Nothing in here but some big sacks of grain. No sign of the kid.” He came running back.
The first policeman led Joe to the car while his partner opened the back door. Before he got in, Joe took a last look at the train yard. Aside from the police and the few’ groaning men he had knocked down, there was no movement. Where was Frank?
Okay, big brother, Joe thought as he climbed into the police car. We’ll play it your way. I just hope you know what you’re doing.
Chapter 13
THOUGH CHET MORTON had grown up in Bayport, he had never grown tired of the town. With its clean air and tree-lined streets, it was the only place he would ever be able to think of as home. But while Bayport had stayed the same through much of his childhood, the town had changed a lot in the past few years, and Chet wasn’t sure he liked all the changes.
Those thoughts were running through his head as he strolled past the closed-up brick buildings near the town square. Once they’d been full of stores. Chet fondly remembered long summer afternoons in Mr. Reis’s Soda Paradise, sipping strawberry sodas and reading comic books. But the Soda Paradise was gone, a For Rent sign on the window of its building. Other stores were gone, too. They had moved out to the mall built near the interstate highway that curved around Bayport a few miles out of town. The mall drew the kids, emptying the Soda Paradise until no customers were left.
No customers except Chet, that is. He drank Mr. Reis’s sodas right up until the day the shop closed. “You shouldn’t drink so many sodas,” Mr. Reis would scold. “Are you trying to keep me in business all by yourself?” Chet would laugh then, because he would have kept Mr. Reis in business if he could have.
But the Soda Paradise was gone, and Mr. Reis was gone, too, moved to Miami. Peering into the window of the store, Chet could see that the counter was still there, but it was bare. The comic and magazine racks were empty, and large clumps of dust lay on the floor.
I don’t like change, Chet decided. He moved on. The stores were gone, but offices had taken the place of some of them.
But while the new growth would save Bayport from extinction, it would also bring the crime and noise that people were coming to Bayport to get away from. It wasn’t something Chet was looking forward to.
Some things would never change, though. The old town square stayed the same, no matter what, with the police station on one side, and City Hall, with the mayor’s office and the courthouse in it, on the adjacent side. Across the square stood the Strand Bank. It was still the bank most of the people of Bayport used, and it had resisted the move to the mall. But this day, the town square was different. It was lined with rickety old school buses-dozens of them, each carrying forty or more boys and girls. More buses rolled into town every hour, converging on the square, where the marquee’ on the old movie theater read: TONIGHT ONLY! THE RAJAH SPEAKS!
Chet walked past the town square and turned north on the next block. He didn’t want to run into the Rajah’s followers congregating there in their turbans and robes.
Though he would never have admitted it, Chet was surprised to see they were actually well behaved. They sat quietly on the buses, chanting their chants. Nothing in their manner indicated that they were any nuisance or threat to the people of Bayport.
Chet pictured himself in a turban and gown, his hair shaved off and a glazed look in his eyes, and he shuddered. He sped up from a fast walk to a jog and didn’t slow down until he was far away from the town square.
Chet was almost at the Hardy house when he saw another bus. It was parked across the street from the house. There was no one in the bus, but Chet could see picket signs inside with-slogans like the murderer must be punished and Free our sister. Chet knew the Rajah’s people were around somewhere. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel their eyes watching everything that happened on the block. He continued around the block to the next street and approached the Hardy house by the old shortcut through the backyard. .
Before he could reach the door, a man appeared in front of Chet, and Chet’s heart jumped to his throat. This is it, he thought. They’ve got me now. I’m doomed. He opened his mouth to scream.
“Kind of jumpy, aren’t you, Morton?” Con Riley said, grinning. He was one of the best cops on the Bayport force, but he lived in the shadow of Fenton Hardy and his famous sons. Usually he took this situation with good humor, but he still enjoyed ribbing the Hardys and their friends. “You better get in there, Morton. The chief’s waiting for you.”
Chet gulped. If Police Chief Collig was there, the meeting would be trouble. For a moment, he considered leaving. But that would mean looking foolish in front of Riley, so Chet opened the screen door and went into the house.
He noticed the change in the house as soon as he entered the kitchen. The room was normally filled with the sweet scent of Aunt Gertrude’s baking, and he had hoped to get a slice of cherry pie from her. It was as if she weren’t in the house at all. Puzzled, he strolled into the living room. “It’s about time,” said Tony Prito, who sat on It, his sofa next to Phil Cohen. They were both friends of the Hardys, too. Chet liked Phil, though Phil was so smart he often made Chet feel stupid by comparison. Tony, who worked at the pizza place in the mall, was okay, but Chet thought he was a show-off and didn’t quite trust him.
“We’re about to get our orders,” Phil said with a smile. There was something reassuring about Phil. No matter how great the danger, he never lost his sense of humor, and Chet had the feeling they were heading for danger now. “Allow the chief to explain.”
Chief Collig stood next to the easy chair. He was clearly uncomfortable. Though he had often asked Fenton Hardy for help, he never liked putting the boys in danger.
“In case there are any of you who don’t know,” he began, “a couple of days ago, Frank and Joe Hardy rescued Holly Strand from this madman who calls himself the Rajah. Today the Rajah has brought his people to town in an attempt to get the girl back. And Frank Hardy is still ‘missing. “
Chet heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Joe Hardy. ‘Hello, Joe,” he said uncomfortably.
Joe had been involved with Chet’s sister, Iola, until she was killed by a bomb meant for Joe. It was the event that had given Joe and Frank a new direction in their lives, as dedicated crime fighters. But it had left Joe and Chet unsure of what to say to each other.
“Hi,” Joe replied. Then he said to the chief, “I do
n’t think it’s as simple as that.”
“Wait a minute!” Chet cried. “I thought you were in jail. Didn’t the police bring you in yesterday?”
The chief shook his head. “There’s not enough evidence to hold him. The Rajah has turned over a gun with Joe’s fingerprints on it, but he won’t let anyone see the body of the man who was supposedly killed. He’s a strange one.”
“And all the witnesses are his followers, which makes it a little hard for the police to trust them,” Joe added. “But it does restrict my movements.”
“Yes,” Chief Collig agreed. “Until we’ve sorted it out, you’re still a suspect. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in the house.”
Joe nodded. “Which is why we need you and Tony and Phil, Chet. You’re going to be my eyes and legs. As I was saying, the Rajah’s up to something that’s bigger than just getting Holly back.
She told me how his people followed her when she ran away from home. He finally came looking for her personally and took her up to his commune himself. No one else got that kind of special treatment.
“Then, when I was in the Rajah’s home, I heard him arguing with his assistant, Vivasvat.
Vivasvat called himself Shakey Leland and called the Rajah Mikey.”
“Leland, huh?” the chief said. “I remember him. He used to run con games up in the Boston area. I ran him out of Bayport a couple of times, but he vanished a few years back. No wonder the Rajah doesn’t want us looking at the body.”
“There’s more,” Joe said. “He knew who Frank was before Frank got into the commune. He knew who I was. So he must have let us take Holly out of there.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Tony mused. “If he went to all that much trouble, why would he let her go? And then come after her?”
“It puzzled me, too,” said a voice behind them. “There’s only one explanation I can think of;” They all spun abruptly and stared at the tall, brown-haired boy who leaned against the kitchen doorway.
Cult of Crime Page 7
