Intervention is indeed a tricky and controversial business. The days when cult-busters could ride into town and snatch victims out from under their captors’ noses are long gone. Though forced extraction was widely used the 1970s, a series of crippling lawsuits and mounting ethical concerns have rendered the practice obsolete for the past 20 years. "I used to be involved in that," says Hassan, "but I don’t do abducting any more. It’s so incredibly traumatizing for everyone, including me. I basically don’t do anything illegal any more."

One of the last holdouts of the old-school approach was a New Jersey–based researcher named Rick Ross, who admits to having used coerced-extraction techniques as late as 1994. "I got involved in a lawsuit with the Church of Scientology," he says. "I realized I was going to spend more time with my lawyers than with my work, so I stopped." Today, none of the dozen or so full-time cult researchers in the US uses coercion — or at least none will admit to doing so. "It’s not like the old days where you could literally go and kidnap someone, take them to a motel room, and nail the door shut," says Bob Pardon. "You have to have a much more respectful approach."

These days, the Pardons favor a process called "exit counseling," which entails spending up to a year educating the family of a victim, creating strategies to build trust between the family and group leaders, devising a way to lure the victim away from the group for a few days, then subtly giving that person information about cults that will help him see his own predicament, and thus willingly make his escape. Which isn’t as easy as it may sound.

Generally, interventions are initiated by the families of cult members. For the vast majority of the people actually in cults, leaving is a wrenching, painful affair. "You never have people saying, ‘I’m so glad you came! Let’s get out of here!’" says Bob. "People routinely tell you, ‘I’m happy here. What are you doing?’ The cult has essentially created a cult persona. A layering of cult identity has been established."

In recent years, the process of breaking through those layers has also undergone a major overhaul. Today, few exit counselors ascribe to the once-popular strategy of "deprogramming," in which the survivor has his cult-instilled beliefs drummed out of him, forcibly and mercilessly. At best, goes the conventional wisdom now, this fighting-fire-with-fire approach leaves an individual with a slew of unresolved issues buried just below the surface. At worst, it sends that person back into the arms of the group.

"People have to come to their own conclusions," says Bob. "When you come out of a group, you’ve already had people dictating reality to you. The last thing we want to do is dictate reality for them. So what we do is give them the tools to work through things, to understand things on their own."

"The biggest thing is the issue of trust," adds Judy. "They don’t trust anyone, even themselves. So the first thing we have to do is build bridges, so they’ll trust us enough to start doing this work. It’s incredibly emotional, very draining for them. It’s a long, involved process."

"This isn’t like leaving the Kiwanis or some kind of fraternity or sorority," continues Bob. "You have based the very essence of who you are on this belief system, and you find out now that it is false."

Dismantling a belief system, of course, is no walk in the park. Over the years, the Pardons came to believe that they could work more effectively with some of the more damaged cult survivors if they had full-time access to them. For a while, Judy put people up in her own home. "That," she says, "was very difficult." Last fall, with the help of private donors, the couple opened Meadow Haven, a rambling former nursing home in rural Lakeville, in Southern Massachusetts.

"We’re here to help people put their lives back together," says Bob, "to help them in any way that they need."

Exactly what kind of help a recovering cult member is supposed to get remains somewhat up in the air. The field is, for sure, more an art than a science. "You can’t go to school for it," says Bob. "I can tell you that." Over the years, researchers like Steve Hassan and Robert Jay Lifton have published books outlining what destructive mind-control groups are and suggesting ways to ease people out of them. Still, the cult-member-rehabilitation process remains a nascent, amorphous enterprise, and the Pardons will readily admit to drawing heavily from whatever sources are on hand. "I’m very eclectic," Bob says. "I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel."

The kind of help that has been made available to residents of Meadow Haven so far has been a mix of therapy, religious counseling, exercise, education, rest, and large doses of TLC. "I’ve been overwhelmed with gratitude to Bob and Judy," says Kerry, sitting on a sofa in the center’s large, brightly lit living room. "This whole experience has been so intrusive to my person, to my identity, to my family structure, to my relationships. I lost all my friends. It’s such a devastating point to be at. So to receive unconditional love from people was an incredible experience. They didn’t expect anything from me — they just gave and gave and gave."

but The work that Bob and Judy Pardon do is not without controversy. A few years back, Bob became a central figure in the Attleboro-sect case, in which members Jacques and Karen Robidoux were arrested in connection with the deaths of two children. Along with becoming a constant presence in news stories about the episode, Bob served as an adviser for authorities handling the case, writing up a comprehensive report on the sect, and was even named guardian ad litem — or court-appointed advocate — for the group’s remaining children. Today, Bob routinely consults with police, social-services agencies, and lawyers about cult issues.

Andrew Walsh, a religious historian at Trinity College in Hartford, finds this troubling. "I’m by no means an expert on cults," Walsh says. "I wouldn’t go around saying that what Robert Pardon does is bad for people. But what’s interesting to me is that he got an awful lot of mileage out of being a ‘cult expert’ while not being open about that fact that he is religious himself. His group sounds academic and nonprofit-y, and he presents it that way because if he called it the Anti-Cult Ministry, people wouldn’t call him, judges wouldn’t call him. It seemed to me that he positioned himself as a kind of free agent able to comment objectively about the [Attleboro] case, and journalists just ate that up and gave him oceans of ink without saying who he was."

One journalist who did call into question Bob Pardon’s religious background was the Boston Globe’s Eileen McNamara, who, in February 2002, wrote a scathing column in which she basically accused Pardon of browbeating Attleboro group members into accepting his version of Christianity. To bolster her case, McNamara included excerpts of a letter Pardon had written to member David Corneau. "I can testify to you that your beliefs and practices are not consistent with His Word, nor, more profoundly, with His character," the letter read. "How God must weep over your decisions." Bob, meanwhile, insists that his letter was taken out of context. "She misinterpreted it," he says. "She quoted only parts of it, had it say things I didn’t intend to say."

Even those who count themselves among the Pardons’ supporters, however, admit to having concerns about the couple’s fervent Christianity. "This is a hard one," says the AFF’s Carol Giambavo. "It’s better to have someone who understands the issues around Scripture-twisting, who can help unravel that. But when you help get someone out of a group, very often they’ll transfer their dependency needs onto you. You have to be very careful not to transfer your religious beliefs onto them."

"They are very careful about that," insists Kerry. "They joke about it — ‘This is the Cult of Bob.’ But they definitely didn’t try to take the place [of Tariq’s group]. I became very needy with my mom, much more than with Bob and Judy. They encouraged me to branch out and make friends."

Then there’s the question of who pays for all this. Meadow Haven has an annual operating budget, says Judy Pardon, of about $100,000. Though some of this is offset by gifts from the families of cult members the Pardons have helped (they do not charge for their work), the bulk of Meadow Haven’s funding comes from private donors, many of them Christians who, as Steve Hassan puts it, "maybe have expectations that Bob and Judy are doing more evangelical work than they are."

All the same, Hassan is quick to add that he doesn’t believe the Pardons have a surreptitious religious agenda. "I don’t think they’ve ever tried to tell me I shouldn’t be Jewish," he says, adding, "I think the world of Bob and Judy. They’re genuinely kind people. They’re for real."

No matter what you say about the Pardons, you cannot doubt their commitment. Even their romantic relationship — they married two years ago — seems to have blossomed from the work they do together. At first glance, they are an odd couple. Bob, 51, is a bearded, slightly ruffled, jovial man with a penchant for wearing Stetsons and making wisecracks. Judy, 59, is a slight woman with long, reddish hair, bird-like energy, and a tendency to use the language of self-help. On the issue of their work, however, Bob and Judy speak very much with one voice — sometimes literally.

Bob: "We deal with this all the time ..."

Judy: "People say because we’re Christians ..."

Bob: "We’re jamming our beliefs down people’s throats ..."

Judy: "The spiritual aspect has to be dealt with ..."

Bob: "Has to be dealt with ..."

Judy: "Because that’s what the foundation is on ..."

Bob: "At some point you’re going to have to deal with this ..."

Judy: "But we’re not going to tell people they have to believe what we believe ..."

Bob: "That would be unethical ..."

In any event, it seems clear that Kerry has benefited from her stay at Meadow Haven. "There are times I’ve been extremely angry," she says, "especially remembering the abuse. It makes me infuriated. But it took me a long time to get to that point. For a long time I still had intense feelings of love and adoration for Tariq. I’d like to reach a point where I could forgive him, if only for myself. He’s a sinner just like I’m a sinner. I also did terrible things to people."

Recently, Kerry made contact with her old cult-mates — the people to whom she did those terrible things. "Obviously, it’s very weird," she says. "I’ve apologized, asked for their forgiveness. They even say to me, ‘Kerry, we know it wasn’t you, we know it. You weren’t the one doing this to us.’ So they understand, you know, why. But it’s awful for me to have to face them. I don’t even know how to express my sorrow and my remorse and my guilt and my — just total disgust with myself for doing that."