"Tick-tock, Marty," he said, grinning to himself in the half dark. "Your time's just about up."

16

Savages

WHEN THEY CAME across Dr. Ryland Mulligan, he was hunched over a fat sow in the barn, his tall boots streaked with mud, a concerned look furrowing his brow.

The barn reeked of pig manure, old wood and hay. Pigs grunted and squealed, accompanied by the squawking of chickens that rooted and tapped their beaks in the dirt.

Sheila knocked on the tall barn door, drawn open fully on its rail. Dr. Mulligan looked up at the sound and his expression softened. He smiled awkwardly and stood. "Got lost on your way to the ferry dock, did you?"

"It's Sheila Tanner, Doctor. We spoke over email the other day."

"That's right." He smiled, his teeth slightly yellow and unevenly spaced. "The forensic psychiatrist."

"Psychologist."

He chuckled softly. "I knew I'd get that wrong. It's not quite like the old joke about the fella who mistook the proctologist for a podiatrist, but it's a mistake I won't make more than once, either." As he approached them over the straw-littered ground, Martin stuck out a hand. "Never shake hands with a plumber or a man who's just been up to his elbows in the genital tract of a four-hundred-pound sow," Dr. Mulligan said. "If it's not already a cardinal rule it should be."

Martin hastily lowered his hand. "I'll keep that in mind, Doc."

"No need to stand on formalities. You can call me Ry."

Martin introduced himself.

The doctor's wispy gray eyebrows rose in recognition. "The crime writer?"

"Yessir. Be happy to sign a book for you, if you want."

Sheila rolled her eyes.

"Oh, I don't read true crime," the old man said. "I get enough of it in the news."

"You've heard of me, though. That still counts."

The doctor chuckled. "I suppose it does. Let's talk up the house."

In the pen, the enormous, hairy sow lying on its side with its many pink udders protruding began to grunt and squeal plaintively.

"When's she due?" Sheila asked, thinking how sad it was that the former obstetrician was reduced to birthing piglets.

"Oh, she's about to pop any day now. Sooner rather than later, I'd suspect."

Sheila pouted. "Poor thing. What's her name?"

The old man gave Martin an apologetic look as they left the barn. "Her name is Ruby. No offence to your mother."

"Can I offer either of you a cold beverage?" Dr. Mulligan called from the kitchen.

From where he sat with Sheila in the dim living room, Martin could only see the old man's skinny rear sticking out from behind the fridge door.

"If you want beer, I only stock non-alcoholic, which is what I'm attempting to remain in my golden years."

"I'm fine, thanks," Sheila said.

"Just some water would be nice," Martin said. He always asked for water before an interview. Besides not wanting to get parched, people tended to be more open if you accepted their offers than if you refused them.