The first thing he became aware of was the sensation of movement. The second was the fact that it was not his body that was moving, but rather whatever his body was in. He suspected a vehicle. Most likely a large pickup truck with an attached camper shell, judging by the vibrations, sounds, and his immediate surroundings. The third thing he realized, after trying unsuccessfully to sit up (he totally blamed his failure on the fact that his hands were cuffed behind him and he was held down by safety straps-the irony of which was not lost on him at all- instead of the fact that the pain caused by his attempts at movement made him want to cry like a little girl), was that he really did not want to be…wherever he currently was.

There is something to be said about a man who is relieved when he hasn't heard from his best friend in over thirty-six hours, but, considering who his best friend was, those things should not be said about Burton Guster. Although, considering that the last time he had gotten blessed silence from Shawn the man had been leaving for God-knows-where (Gus thought it might have been Argentina, but it could have just as easily been L.A.) on a quest to find his "calling" (and wasn't that just hilarious since he was pretending to be a psychic?), Gus might not have been as relieved as he told himself he was.
Then again, Shawn was probably currently lazing about at his new girlfriend's house.
That was it. No reason to be worried. He'd give it another few hours before he called his (only) friend. Gus smiled and went back to destroying alien spacecraft while keeping an eye out for his boss.

There is slightly less to be said about a man who thinks absolutely nothing of it when he has neither seen nor heard from his only son in over a week, despite the fact that said child lives and works less than five miles from said father. In Henry Spencer's case, considering who his son was, those things are not even thought. It didn't matter that Shawn had been over nearly once a week (since he'd learned his father had returned from Miami, anyway) to ask for his help on cases and that he had even been coming by for heretofore unheard of social visits (which had, apart from being exceedingly awkward, been surprisingly pleasant).
It also didn't matter that he had been receiving semi-regular phone calls from his son, all of which came at or around three in the morning, all of which could really have waited until midday (or never- because he was completely unmoved when Shawn informed him that the shop down the road from the Psych office had run out of pineapples or that the cute barista from the Starbucks by the station had been fired for some undisclosed offense).
Shawn had probably just done something incredibly stupid, selfish, dangerous, or disappointing (again) and was avoiding his father in the hope of sparing himself a lecture.
That was it. No reason to feel put out. He'd wait another few days before tracking down his wayward son to lecture him about…whatever it was that he'd done.

Carlton Lassiter felt like dancing, but he wouldn't. Not in public, anyway. Maybe when he got home…no. No dancing. None whatsoever.
He could not, however, help the smile that he'd been wearing all morning. Nobody questioned it; a happy Head Detective (and even in his head he gave the title the capital letters it deserved) was a rarity these days. Ever since a certain phony psychic detective (and even with all the evidence pointing to Spencer not being a fraud, he still refused to believe it) had begun consulting for their department. Over a year, now.
Juliet O'Hara just wished that her partner's obvious joy was not the direct result of her favorite psychic's absence.
Sure, they were perfectly capable of solving crime on their own (and they had actually been on a winning streak for the past few days, enough so that they hadn't needed Shawn), but the psychic's antics certainly made things more interesting. Still, no reason for Shawn to be hanging around, and if that made her permanently grouchy partner and her perpetually stressed Chief happy (for different reasons, but happy nonetheless), she sure as hell wasn't going to complain.

Gwen was going to complain, though- loudly and publicly. As soon as Shawn called her like he'd promised to.

To be fair, he had only technically been the victim of a kidnapping for twenty-four hours. In the day that had gone by with nobody questioning his absence, Shawn had come to several realizations:
- no matter what the commercials claimed, pickup trucks should never, ever be used for off-roading,
- he was not particularly fond of women who came fully equipped with sadistic accomplices and crowbars,
- he should really pay more attention when Chief Vick, Lassie, and Jules all tell him not to investigate things on his own (or at least not without backup or some way of calling for it),
- criminals could sometimes have great ideas (like going in circular and out-of-the-way routes to their destination to throw off his sense of location) and then find some incredible way to screw it up (like not blindfolding him- though even that probably wouldn't have stopped him from knowing exactly where he was being taken), and
- because he knew exactly where he was, he knew that nobody was going to find him anytime soon (hell, the police didn't even know about the connection to this place yet), unless they were psychic (and wasn't that just a kick in the head?).
Oh, and he really, really, really did not want to be here.