Ch. 36

It was the next morning when Vlad and Eric reached the hotel. Things had returned to normal; there was no sign any illegal activity had taken place. Nevertheless, they asked around. The manager hadn't even been there. The night manager (Who they had to track down at his home) hadn't seen anyone matching Gina's description. He did describe a man who purchased a room, than dissapeared without staying in it. A room for three.
"He was a big hulking fellow, with short brown hair and a ridiculous handlebar moustache," the little man said, "And it wasn't long after he left that the gunshots started. I just stayed in here and called the police, that's the best way."
So, they thanked him and went on to the police station.
These were not surprisingly smart and helpful policemen. These were none-of-your-business-get-out-of-my-face policemen, so that thread ended quickly.
"So what else is there?" asked Eric frustratedly.
Vlad wordlessly held up the lobster. Eric sighed but nodded, and Vlad placed him on the dashboard. He pointed East.
"That proves nothing," Eric insisted.
"We'll see when we get closer to Maine," said Vlad.

So, following a vaguely remembered story and the lead of a lobster, they went to Maine. They drove 24 hours straight, Vlad sleeping in the day and driving at night, and Eric visa versa. It was about 11:30 then they reached the sign that said:
Welcome to Maine, the Pine Tree state. Eric nudged Vlad.
"Ok, we're here. Now what?"
"Wha- huh- the lobster," replied Vlad sleepily.
"He's pointing to the median strip."
"Well, you can't expect him to know traffic laws and how to find the place. Why, my pet crayfish couldn't even tell you what a stop sign meant. Not that we had stop signs in the old country. Couldn't afford them. If they wanted you to stop, they painted "Stop" on a tree. Well, actually they painted "Stans," but..."
"Vlad."
"Yes?"
"Where do we go?"
"Toward Portland, I think. And our lobster friend seems to agree."
"Ok, let's go."
But as they approached Portland, the lobster actually turned to face an exit as they passed it. And, lacking a better alternative, they took it. And then he started pointing out side roads. Until finally, they embarked along a long gravelly path. Which ended in the middle of the woods.
"Well," said Eric, triumphantly, "Guess that disproves your theory."
"He is pointing," retorted Vlad, "To a footpath."
"You can't be serious."
"C'mon. This is an easy walk. Why, in the -"
"Old country, I know. You had to walk 14 miles uphill through the snow and you didn't even have a lobster."
"Something like that," Vlad chuckled.
At this point they were pretty deep into the footpath, but it seemed to stretch on and on.
"Suddenly the pine tree state thing makes a lot more sense," Eric muttered. Eventually, however, the trees thinned until they were in a huge clearing, facing a large iron gate. In front was a man in a robe just like Rob's.
"Guess we're here," whispered Eric, "Now what's the plan?"