This is the second chapter (obviously...)! Nothing belongs to me. Not even the plot (because, come on- how original is a Shawn-gets-kidnapped story, anyway?) belongs to me. I don't own Toyota, Ford, Dodge, or Pizza Hut. Although, it would be pretty cool to own Pizza Hut; I'll have to work on that...
The Middle of Nowhere, Santa Barbara is not a real place. And on the off chance that it is, I don't own that, either.

I got surprisingly good feedback, so I just wanted to thank everyone.

The second to last conversation that Gus had with Shawn went something like this:

"Come on, Gus; it'll be fun!"

"No. I have work to do."

"But-"

"No. Absolutely not. It's not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because I have work to do, Shawn. I have meetings with two prospective clients today and I am not going to miss out on them."

"Can't we just run in for a few minutes?"

"No. Besides, they'll just turn us away. You know that."

"They won't after I have a miraculous vision of it totally not being the neighborhood watch guy."

"Yes they will. They haven't called us in for a few days, which means they've probably been on a roll and they'll have this wrapped up in no time."

"But did you miss the part where its not the neighborhood watch guy?"

"They probably already figured it out! Now get out of my office; I have work to do."

"But Gus-…Hello? Gwen, hi!…That sounds great…Nope, nothing; I knew you'd call today…Sure, I'll see you then…Okay, bye."

"Was that the-"

"Neighborhood watch guy's daughter? Yes, yes it was. Nice talkin' to ya, buddy, but I gotta go."

"Shawn, wait! You can't-"

"Bye, Gus!"

×Ø

The last conversation that they had is of no importance and included, among many an inane topic, pineapples and the many tasty uses thereof, Gus's blue Toyota (which Shawn had lovingly dubbed the "Psychmobile" despite that it really belonged to a pharmaceuticals company that he couldn't really be bothered to acknowledge even existed- except to make jokes about Gus being a drug dealer), the best way to fake a psychic vision (i.e., the way that would annoy a certain detective most; this part of the conversation involved several vehement protests from Gus) that would get them assigned to an as-of-yet unspecified super cool investigation and thereby pull Gus away from his real job, and how to avoid mowing the lawn for Henry.

Several days later, this conversation would be the one that stood out foremost in Gus's mind.

×Ø

Gwen had been right; sex with Shawn Spencer really was worth tolerating his ridiculous antics. It was like he knew what she wanted without her even having to give hints or outright suggestions. When she asked him about that, afterwards, he simply pointed to his temple with an almost-maniacal grin.

"I'm psychic, silly."

She made him promise to call her the next day, and, when questioned, told him, with a little smirk, that he should already know.

He did.

×Ø

While Gus was off finishing his route, Shawn had been approached at his office by Brian Greyson. Brian was a smart (but not brilliant) seventeen year-old kid with poor, working class parents who loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Brian did his best to save money for at least a community college education. He had a steady job, he didn't have much of a social life, he didn't have any hobbies, and he kept a close eye on his bank account; which was why he suspected that his parents were doing something illegal and/or immoral. His savings had been increasing rapidly over the last week or two, and he (as far as he knew) had not gotten a raise or bonus from his boss, nor had his parents made any career changes. He didn't want to go to the police, just in case is was something illegal.

So he hired Shawn to at least find out what exactly his parents were up to, and, if it turned out to be something illegal and/or immoral (like, for instance, selling their nonessential organs on the black market), to stop them if he could.

Shawn agreed, mainly because he was bored (they hadn't had a walk-in client in over a week and Lassie and Jules had just solved their most recent case- without his help), but also because he had decided that he liked this kid.

×Ø

Six o'clock that evening found Shawn riding his motorcycle a lane to the right and three cars back from a blue Ford Taurus owned by Thomas and Ashley Greyson (technically, it was just Tom's name on the title, but Shawn decided that it belonged to both of them because they both used it). Really, his Norton wasn't ideal for this sort of thing (that is, covert operations), but he didn't really have a choice unless he wanted to have a cabbie or (spirits forbid) his father drive him around. He had enough (too much) confidence in himself to pull this off.

Thomas and Ashley didn't notice him; they were too focused on following the black Dodge Ram (model 2004, good condition with just a small dent near the back bumper and one tire that didn't quite match the others, sticker in the camper shell window that said something rather nasty about George Bush's mother, license plate KFE 167, filth on the tires that suggested recent and frequent trips through mud and/or dirt, a busted left tail light, and cab windows tinted slightly darker than state law allowed- which stopped Shawn from getting a good view of the interior; all he could discern was that there were two occupants, and that one of them- the passenger- was female).

In the back of his mind, he suddenly had a craving for some cold pizza.

×Ø

How the hell did he get pizza, of all things, in his fridge? For that matter, when was the last time that he hadn't cooked his own food? (A month and thirteen days, now that he thought about it- he and Shawn had gone out to Mario's for dinner. Together. Shawn had even paid.)

Mario's didn't have pizza. And if they did, they certainly didn't have it in boxes labeled 'Pizza Hut.'

Henry's eyes narrowed in thought. Thought, and maybe a little irritation.

×Ø

Lassiter and O'Hara were congratulating themselves on having solved, single-handedly (although there was some debate over if it should really be called that, what with there being the two of them), their eighth case in a row. No help from the Chief or other officers (excepting the necessary evil of forensics people and lab techs), and no help from outside consultants (that is, no Shawn Spencer to bounce around and solve the case faster than they ever could have on their own).

Lassiter had been right about it being the neighbor (albeit this was after being wrong about it being the neighborhood watch guy, but that was a first guess. Everybody knows that first guesses don't count). The man had cracked under the pressure of the Head Detective's awesome interrogation powers (the nearly permanent death-glare was a big plus in situations like these) within five minutes.

O'Hara had hit the nail on the head with her theory on his motive (jealousy, of course- wasn't it always in cases like these?), and Lassiter had even praised her for it.

This man wouldn't be stealing anyone else's lawn mower again for a very long time.

They were confident that their next case (a double homicide near an old textile factory out in The Middle of Nowhere, Santa Barbara) would be handled just as easily.