Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“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—”

The white-haired man raised a mournful face to Julian. He raised his index finger, calm again in his bizarre way. He acted as if he were instructing Julian in an important point of molecular biology. “Claire Satterfield brought something into my life that I’d never had. So there’s just one thing I want you to know before I die.” Oh hell, I thought. “And that is,” he continued, “that you did not cause the accident with my … wife.” He spat out the word. “No. Babs was following you and Claire because she thought you were bringing Claire to me for … an assignation. You didn’t fail to signal, my wife was following too … closely. So there you are.” He crossed his arms, QED.

“Claire?” asked Julian. “You … and …” He shook his head and seemed to make a decision. “It’s okay, Dr. Braithwaite, it’s … over.” Julian looked around the lab, trying to assess, I thought, how Charles Braithwaite could fulfill what seemed to be his desire to do himself in. He picked up the pot he’d placed on the near table. “Come on, look! You’ve created a blue rose! You’ve got a lot to live for—”

“I wanted to give it to her,” Charles said wistfully. Overhead, the finale firework showered red, white, and blue sparkles that absurdly lit the greenhouse with twinkling light, illuminating the tears on his stricken face. “To Claire. That’s why I was in the mall garage that day. I wanted to give it to her as my parting gift. The flower named after her, because it was so beautiful. So rare.” He looked at Julian and shrugged. “And then I—can you blame me? I heard that terrible sound, and I knew. You want to know the truth? I thought my wife had done it. Maybe she did! Maybe she hired somebody to do the hit-and-run.” He stretched his arms to their full length. “And it was all Babs’s fault I met Claire in the first place! She sent me in to pick up her damn stuff. And there was Claire, acting as if I were … as if I were the most wonderful …” He dropped his arms and shook his head vigorously, as if he’d just come to the realization of whatever it was he’d been concentrating on before he’d digressed. “Listen,” he said abruptly, “I’ve thought this all through. Just leave me in peace, please. Now , all right?”

“Let’s go talk about it up at the house!” Julian said brightly. “I mean really, Dr. Braithwaite, you’re too young to die. You need to give it some more thought.”

“No!” wailed Charles Braithwaite. “Go away!” He stepped agilely over the books, and to my shock, put both arms around the vat of liquid nitrogen. This was how he was going to kill himself. Using liquid nitrogen. We had to get out. Charles began to rock the tank. “Can’t you hear?” he roared. “This is the end! Get out of the way!”

“Julian!” I shrieked.

But Julian ignored me. He stepped briskly over the pile of books and grabbed Charles Braithwaite’s arm. The vat of liquid nitrogen continued to rock. Yanking hard, Julian pulled Charles away just as the top came off the tank.

“Get out!” Julian shouted to me as he dragged a flailing Charles in my direction. “Go!”

I banged open the door. When I looked back, the tank teetered as the freezing chemical splashed over one side, emitting clouds of white smoke. Julian scrambled toward the exit, his arms firmly encircling Charles Braithwaite’s chest. Charles, his white hair wild, kicked halfheartedly. But he was no match for young Julian’s strength. The three of us bounded out of the greenhouse just as the vat crashed downward. I couldn’t help it—I looked back again, just in time to see the liquid nitrogen spilling over and destroying the blue rose plants.