* * *
Paddington spent the rest of the day preparing Thomas’s farm, worrying about Lisa, and calling the southern station every hour for updates. There were none. He wasn’t even sure they were looking. Perhaps they were busy tracking the last of the zombies… No. Conall’s voice across the phone line was strong, without a hint of worry. Winslow had been no problem. The zombies were already dead. Or re-dead, or un-reanimated. They’d been dealt with.
If only he could be as confident that Conall would find Lisa. Paddington discounted the beast as a suspect because Lisa’s clothes were intact and it had already eaten today. That meant some human monster was responsible, and instead of catching them Paddington was making cups of tea for eight men with shotguns.
Paddington felt sorry for the Beast of Gévaudan. Being a mystical creature was a poor defence against socially-minded Archians.
The minute five o’clock struck, Paddington bade Quentin goodbye, made him promise to radio if anything happened, and drove away. He was on his own time now, and he’d find Lisa even if he had to search the whole damned island himself.