"So, you think these guys in the red jackets have something to do with my brother disappearin'?" Stanley asked Fiddleford as the car sped down the road.

"Yes," his passenger answered, stiff with fright at the speed Stanley was driving. "—I suspect this "Mano Rojo" gang or whatever they are have something to do with the disappearances of th' disabled kids at Backupsmore—the looks they gave those kids, the things I heard 'em say—strange remarks about how they were 'imperfect beings'—say, c-could you slow down a bit-we won't find your brother if we get pulled over by the police—or, crash into a tree. "

Stanley lifted his foot off the gas a little. "Sorry, just—worried about my brother is all. "

Fiddleford nodded his understanding, drew a deep breath and exhaled. "I've only known your brother a week, and—well, he's been a real good friend to me. I don't want to lose him, either. "

Wow-someone who's actually callin' my brother a friend. Stanley thought, thinking of his and Stanford's nearly friendless childhood. That was why Stan hadn't wanted Stanford to leave for West Coast Tech. Who would he have had then? Who would he have if he and this little guy couldn't find Stanford?

"Hey, I know that car! "

Stanley slammed on the brakes at his passenger's outcry. "What car? "

Fiddleford shook himself from the shock of stopping so fast, and then pointed out the window at a beat-up blue Falcon XK parked by the side of the road. "I'm pretty sure that belongs to one of those Mano Rojo guys. "

Stanley didn't know much Spanish, but he was pretty sure that the southern twang in this kid's voice didn't make the words sound like they should.

Looking up the slight incline the XK was parked at the bottom of, Stan could see an abandoned farmhouse. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see an older lady who appeared to be arguing with a police officer on the other side of the road.

"Well, kid," Stan said, moving to get out of the car. "We'd better check this out. "

His passenger bit his lower lip, but got out of the car, too.

Stanford looked up at the man in the red robe and hood that stood over him on the right side of the plaform. The young man's heart was pounding harder than it ever had in his life.

"So, I'm guessing you'd like to know why you're here. "The robed figure asked.

Stanford nodded.

"You see, "the figure continued, "I believe that the human race was meant to be perfect. I have been given a mission to ensure that it is. Sadly, the imperfect continue to be born. Therefore it is my mission to cleanse the earth of them. "

Stanford drew a sharp breath and clenched both of his fists.

"A pity," the robed figure said, placing a hand on the young man's head. "You have such a wonderful mind. Truly a waste, but a mission is a mission. "

He reached into the fold of his robe and pulled out a dagger with a swirl design on the hilt and a crooked five-inch blade.

Stanford let out a muffled cry.