Killer Pancake

I looked at the boxes, fascinated. So this was where he’d created the blue rose. In spite of the uneasy feeling that Julian and I didn’t belong there, I found it astonishing that someone could put together this kind of complicated scientific setup in our little burg of Aspen Meadow. Of course, with enough money, you could probably analyze sunscreens in Antarctica.

“You just put the plant into the gel and look at it through the microscope?”

Julian shook his head. “No, no, first you have to grind it up.” He pointed to a cylindrical tank that was three feet high and about three feet in diameter. “You have to put the flower petals into liquid nitrogen, which is what’s in that vat. You grind the petals in there till they’re like a fine powder, then you have to add a buffer—”

“Liquid nitrogen?” I interrupted. “Isn’t that pretty cold stuff?”

He grinned. It was the first time I’d seen him amused since Claire’s death. “Try minus one hundred ninety-six degrees. That cold enough for you? You wear latex gloves, Goldy.” He pointed to some gloves tidily placed by a mortar and pestle next to the tank. “If you put your hands in there unprotected, they’d break off. Put your head in, and you’d be the headless horseman. Not to mention that the fumes would suffocate you.”

I decided I’d had enough science lesson. “Okay Julian, thanks. Let’s go back up to the house.”

“But I haven’t told you about the sequencing gel apparatus and the laminer air-flow hood! Not to mention the gene gun. That’s really cool.”

Cooler than minus 196 I couldn’t imagine. “Gene gun? Can you shoot anybody with it?”

“Very funny.” He moved to a table and picked up what looked like an elongated pistol. “You introduce your bit of DNA into the axillary buds of the flower you’re experimenting with, and you pray like mad that you end up with your blue daffodil, or whatever it is—” He fell silent as his eyes rested on a cluster of flowering plants that I could just dimly see. They were grouped next to the vat of liquid nitrogen. “What the hell?” Julian peered in closely at the flowers. “He had these covered up last time … oh my God, it’s a frigging blue rose!” He picked up a small pot and held it up to the light. I felt my heart stumble in my chest. I wanted to get out of there so badly. “Judas priest!” cried Julian. “Look at this, Goldy! I can’t believe it! Do you know what this means?”

A whimper came from behind a shelf of books at the far end of the lab. Julian and I gaped at each other.

“Go away!” sobbed the voice. “Just leave!”

Julian carefully put the pot down with the others. “It’s him,” he stage-whispered to me.

The sobs grew louder. “Just go away! Leave me in peace!”

“Dr. Braithwaite,” Julian said as he moved toward the shelves, “we were just worried about you, when the door was open—”

The entire shelf of books erupted at that moment as a growling Charles Braithwaite heaved them forward and emerged with his arms outstretched. Julian jumped back from the cascade of volumes. Sobbing, his arms raised, Charles Braithwaite had the aspect of a skinny, white-haired ogre. He growled at us, then screeched, “Go a-way! Leave!”

“Julian!” I yelled. “Let’s get out of here!”

Julian didn’t move.

“Why … won’t … you … leave?” Charles Braithwaite bellowed. He stood with his thin legs apart, his long arms outstretched. “Nothing … means … anything.” Then, defeated, he stumbled through the fallen books and sank against one of the tables. In a much lower, more subdued voice, he murmured, “If you will just please go away, I won’t turn you in for smoking as a minor.”

The guy was losing it, that much was dear. First he was howling like a crazy person, then he was making calm pronouncements. I was sorely tempted to exit as bidden, but Julian stepped with determination over the piles of disheveled books.

“Dr. Braithwaite,” he said calmly, “you’re upset.” Smart kid, I thought. Just keep your tone low. Smarter yet, I thought ruefully, get the heck out. Julian held out his hand. “Why don’t you just come up with us—”

“No!” Charles Braithwaite roared, his white hair shaking wildly. “Leave me alone!”

“Come on, Julian,” I implored from the entrance to the greenhouse. “Let’s just—”

“I’m not doing it,” Julian said in my direction, his voice sharp but still low. “We’re not leaving without him. Look, Dr. Braithwaite, you don’t have to—”