Read Online Tropic of Darkness by Tony Richards - Free Book Online

center of his breastbone.
    Seconds, that was all he’d earned. A brief respite and nothing in the least bit more.
    This was hopeless, and he understood that fully now. This was utterly futile. There was only one thing left to do.
    Alfonsine steadied himself and then, raising himself on his elbows, pulled out one of the needles, letting the tubing drop away. He reached over to the man beside him. Got hold of the tube that was transferring blood and yanked it clear. No point pumping any more of the stuff into the poor guy.
    He lowered himself back onto the table, let his eyelids flutter shut. And lay there, breathing shallowly.
    His blood continued pumping through the other tube. Except that, by this time, it was splashing on the floor.

CHAPTER
    EIGHT
    The receptionist on the Toronto end of the line said, “I can put you through to Tom Burlington again, if you’d like?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Manuel Cruz replied.
    It was nine-thirty in the morning and promising to be an exceptionally hot day. And since his air conditioner was on the fritz again, he was sitting in his rolled-up shirtsleeves at his desk, a handkerchief clutched to his brow.
    â€œI’ve already talked to him,” Manuel said. “Is there someone who knew Francis better? Perhaps, an actual friend?”
    â€œWe-ell, there’s Colin Petrie, I suppose,” the receptionist replied. “He and Mr. Jackson started here at about the same time.”
    â€œHe’ll have to do, then.”
    There were eight rings on the extension before someone picked up.
    â€œUh-huh?” asked a laid-back-sounding voice.
    When Manuel put down the handset a few minutes later, the day’s heat was forgotten. The atmosphere actually seemed a little cooler, if anything.
    An instinct you have, yes? Carlos had said to him yesterday evening.
    Manuel paused a short while, trying to think straight. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed the precinct house where his brother-in-law was stationed.
    â€œCaptain Esposito, if you please?”
    â€œI’m sorry. He is out on call.”
    â€œDo you know when he’ll be back?”
    â€œThere’s no telling, I’m afraid.”
    He left a message instead. There was nothing Manuel could do but wait.
    *   *   *
    Carlos Esposito stood between the broken open doors of operating theatre D, his hands thrust in his pockets.
    Hadn’t little Manuel been telling him, just last night, about someone who had bled himself to death? He couldn’t recall the details—to tell the truth, he’d been rather drunk.
    But here was another curious suicide. And yet more blood.
    The last time he’d seen this much, he had been in the army. Just a kid, back then. 1961, La Batalla de Girón, the abortive Bay of Pigs invasion. The bodies of counterrevolutionaries had been washing up along the shoreline. And despite the sense of victory, it had been extremely ugly to behold.
    At least then, there’d been a reason for it. Carlos could think of no sensible explanation for the scene in front of him.
    The entire floor was smothered with a gluey reddish-brown. Bizarre. Why should anybody choose to end his life in such a way and take someone with him?
    He had already questioned some of Doctor Julio Alfonsine’s colleagues and got the same kind of replies from each. The man had been a good doctor, sound of judgment, with no obvious problems. A long-term bachelor, but comfortable enough with that. Nothing much wrong there, then.
    Except that, for the past few days, the doctor had struck them as uneasy and vague-minded. He’d looked rather tired as well. Coming down with the flu, perhaps. They had even commented on it to him, but gotten no clear reply.
    Yesterday had been his day off, so no one knew how the doctor had spent his last twenty-four hours.
    Carlos kept on staring glumly at the bloodless corpse.
    He’d a full enough case load as it was, and normally