Research notes of Dr. P. Allensen

Date: June 24, 1971

Time: 5:41 pm

It was easier than I thought, to get my Subject to agree, willingly, to testing. A little flattery, and the boy melted like hot butter, and never questioned the fact I had taken him against his will. Testing will begin tomorrow morning. In the meantime, he is able to roam the house, and has access to my extensive library. The fool thinks himself a guest rather than my prisoner.

My assistant, Boy, returned this afternoon, and told me he successfully planted the first clues for Subject's twin, to follow, including one at the sight of acquisition, to make sure we had his attention. This wasn't part of the plan, but I can't say I'm disappointed. I must admit, it was rather quick thinking on Boy's part. Perhaps I've underestimated him. I will talk more with my young assistant in the morning, for now, I need to make sure everything is ready to begin, in the morning.

After bursting into the, thankfully empty, pawn shop yesterday, Stan spent thirty minutes in his father's office trying to calm down enough to tell him what had happened. When he finally managed it, Filbrick sent him upstairs to tell their mother, to find one of Ford's most recent pictures, while he phoned the police to report the kidnapping.

Now, he sat in his, and Ford's shared bedroom, attempting to do something, other than worry himself to death. Unfortunately, the police so far, were no help. They said they couldn't do anything without proper proof that it was, indeed, a kidnapping. When they arrived where Stan had seen the note, it was gone. Only the scales were left, and they refused to count them as evidence. So now, they were saying they couldn't do anything, until Ford was gone 24 hours. Ford could be dead in 24 hours! They said they're best bet, was to wait by the phone, in case the kidnapper called, to make demands. So here they were, their parents by the phones, and Stan in his room.

Stan stood, and resumed the pacing he'd been doing earlier, a thousand scenarios running through his head; If he'd been on time, if he'd insisted Ford come to practice with him, if Ford had stayed home….

His frustration was starting to get the best of him. He needed to punch something. He grabbed his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder. A few rounds with the heavy bag should help, he thought. He turned, walked out his room, and started heading towards the front door. The gym was probably locked, but he didn't care. His coach had given him a copy of the key, a few years ago, after he won his first tournament. He said that stan could come by anytime, and practice.

His mother stopped him when he got to the living room. "Where are you going?"

"Gym. Gotta work off some stuff. Not doin' anything standing round here anyway."

"Please don't. What if these people are after you, too? I couldn't take worrying 'bout both my babies."

Stan hugged her, "Don't worry 'bout me, Ma. I ain't exactly an easy target. Besides, why they'd want me?" he stepped back and smiled at her with a smile only slightly forced. "Knowing the nerd, he probably got himself snatched by the CIA or something."

His mother sighed. "I wish I'd taught Ford the code word."

"I know Ma. You never thought he'd need it."

She sighed again, "Just be careful."

"I will."

She reluctantly let him go and he walked out to his car. Normally, he'd walk there, but he felt like driving would make him less of a target, right now. He opened the door and noticed an envelope under the driver's side windshield wiper. What's this? Another parking ticket? This was legal parking so no, that couldn't be it.

He pulled the envelope out and opened it. He felt his stomach drop to his feet, when he saw the picture inside. It was Ford, out cold, with his arms tied behind his back. He looked to be laying in the backseat of a car. Scrawled across the back of the photo was, "Save him. Think you can? Go back to where this began."

What the heck does that mean!? 'Back to where this began?' Where was he supposed to go?!

He groaned and lightly hit his car's steering wheel. Thinking was Ford's game, not his. Ford would probably already know the answer.

Come on, Stan. You can do this. You have to do this. It's gotta be connected to Sixer getting snatched. So it's gotta mean either the alley, where he got snatched, or the boat, where that weird photographer, started putting Ford on edge. The boat happened first, but Stan had no way of knowing, if the guy holding Ford knew that. If only I'd listened to him back then…. Instead he'd blown it off. Like he always does, when Ford freaks out about something. He treated it like it was no big deal, instead of listening to Ford. Now Sixer was gone, and it was all his fault!

This ain't helping, he thought to himself. Pull yourself together. For all you know, he's locked up somewhere, waiting on you to save him.

He decided to try the alley first.

A few minutes later, he stood in front of the dumpster, where he had found Ford's satchel. Taped to the dumpster, was another envelope. It was too dark in the alley to read much of anything, so Stan decided to open it in his car, under the streetlamp.

But before he started heading out into the open, he bent down and bushed some of the scales on the ground into the previous envelope. The police might not think much of them but stan was sure they were connected to this. The scales were catching the light so much, they were practically glowing. I bet Sixer would have loved to study these! No! He would love to study these. I can't start thinking like that. In fact, after all of this is over, I'll give them to him as gift, and apology for taking so long, and he'll love 'em! After all the Poindexter is fine! He has to be.

With renewed determination, Stan walked quickly, to his El Diablo. Once back in the driver's seat, he carefully opened the envelope. At first, it seemed empty, until he saw a small piece of paper folded in the corner. It looked like a store receipt of some kind. Written on the back were a series of numbers, almost like a code.

What the heck is this!? he thought. Why are they making this so hard!

He vaguely remembered Ford, going through a code breaker phase, when they were younger. He'd even bought a few books about it. Maybe they were still on his bookshelf. He tucked the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled a, very likely illegal, U-turn back toward the shop. He had to figure this out and soon! Ford was counting on him.