Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6) by Margaret Lashley (ereader for android TXT) 📕

“Whoa, there Grayson,” I said, glancing up from the microscope. “I’m gonna need you to back up and start from the beginning on this one.”

“Of course.” Grayson smiled, leaned back, and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “Once upon a time, back in 1669, a German physician named Hennig Brand boiled, filtered and processed about sixty bucketsful of urine.”

“Whoa!” I said, grimacing with disgust. “Uh ... you don’t have to go that far back. And seriously, what was this guy hoping to discover boiling buckets of piss?”

“Phosphorus, Drex. That’s how it was first isolated as an element.” Grayson licked his lips. “You know, I’m suddenly thirsty for a beer.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Only you, Grayson. Stay there. I’ll get you one.”

I scooted out of the booth and fished around the tiny, nearly empty fridge. I reached into the back and pulled out the last Corona and a Dr Pepper. I handed the beer to Grayson. “So this Brand guy discovered black phosphorous?”

“No,” Grayson said, taking the beer. “He discovered white phosphorous. That’s the most common kind. Nowadays, it’s primarily obtained from phosphate rock. Florida and North Carolina are loaded with it.”

I cracked open the Dr Pepper. “So, how many kinds of phosphorous are there?”

“Three.” Grayson cracked open the beer. “There’s white, which is poisonous and highly combustible when in contact with air. Then there’s red phosphorous, which is made by heating white phosphorus to 482 degrees, or by exposing it to sunlight. In that form, it’s not poisonous and a lot less dangerous.”

I shook my head in wonder at Grayson’s encyclopedic knowledge. Too bad he was missing a few vital pages.

“So, what’s it used for?” I asked, then took a slug of my soda.

“Red phosphorous?” Grayson asked. “Mostly for safety matches, fireworks and smoke bombs.”

“Huh,” I grunted. “All that strip mining for a something as trivial as fireworks shows? Hardly seems worth it.”

“For phosphorous alone, maybe not. But it’s the byproduct—phosphoric acid—that’s the big money maker. It’s used commercially in all kinds of things.”

“Like what?”

“Fertilizers. Cleaning detergents. Florescent light bulbs. TVs.” He tipped his beer in an air toast. “Even that soft drink you’re chugging.”

I grimaced. “Ugh! Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I set my soda on the table and took another peek through the microscope lens. “What about this stuff? Black phosphorous. What’s it used for?”

“Until recently, pretty much nothing.”

I looked up from the microscope. “I feel a big ‘but’ coming on.”

Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “Your instincts are correct, cadet. Hold out your hand.”

I showed Grayson my palm. He opened a test tube and poured some black powder into it.

“Touch it,” he said.

I rubbed my index finger in it. The black powder felt flat and grainy, like the stuff in the center of pencils.

“Feels like graphite, doesn’t it?” Grayson asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“A few years ago, black phosphorous was considered useless. But that thin, flaky structure you feel is now being used to create nanosheets for use in nanoelectronics.”

“Uh, okay,” I said. “But what’s any of this got to do with wormholes and portals and pee?”

“Oh, my,” Grayson said, then laughed.

I gave him half a smile for that one.

“Well, you see, Drex, pee is actually the answer to black phosphorous’ future. Researchers found that black phosphorous became more resilient when in contact with ammonia, probably because ammonia donates electrons that neutralize holes in the black phosphorous’ molecular structure, making it more stable for use in nanotechnologies.”

“How did they discover that?” I asked.

“Don’t ask.”

“Fine.” I smirked. “Okay. So, how do intergalactic portals fit in this story?”

“I’m getting there,” Grayson said. “You see, unlike white or red phosphorous, black phosphorous is thermodynamically stable at room temperature and pressure.”

I pretended like I got that. “Yeah? So—”

“And, here’s the kicker,” Grayson said.

He leaned toward me until our faces were inches from each other. He locked his mesmerizing green eyes on my dull brown ones and said, “Even though black phosphorous contains no metal, it conducts electricity.”

I gasped. “Are you saying this black stuff in my hand is the energy source for Malibu Bimbo’s portal?”

Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “And I was beginning to think you were just a pretty face.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

By the grace of God, I’d convinced Grayson to leave the stinking outhouse on wheels and continue our discussion at the picnic table. Garth and Jimmy had joined us there. We were attempting another brainstorming session. The only thing we needed now was a pair of fully-functioning brains.

“Good news, men,” Grayson said. “Drex and I have determined the portal’s energy source.”

Grayson passed around the test tube containing black phosphorous. “Now we need to find the wormhole’s location. We’re in agreement with Jimmy. Our best bet is to surveil Queen Kristie and catch her in the act.”

“Of eating donuts?” Garth asked.

“No,” Grayson said. “Of activating the portal. We need to study her actions. Learn her habits.”

“Her habits?” I asked.

“Yes,” Grayson said. “I believe that, as a fruiting body, bacteria could be determining the timing of Queen Kristie’s Earthly comings and goings.”

“You think Queen Kristie’s under the same bacterial mind control as her followers?” Garth asked.

“Hmm.” Grayson rubbed his chin. “I hadn’t considered that. What I meant was the alien bacteria Queen Kristie’s using could be following an extraterrestrial circadian rhythm.”

“Huh?” Garth asked, saving me the effort.

“A circadian rhythm is a natural, internal process,” Grayson said. “It regulates the sleep-wake cycle. On Earth, it repeats roughly every 24 hours.”

I rolled my eyes at Grayson’s latest tangent. “What’s Queen Bimbo’s beauty-sleep ritual got to do with anything?”

“Circadian rhythms have been widely observed in plants, animals, fungi, and cyanobacteria,” Grayson said. “Therefore, it’s logical to infer that Queen Bim—I mean Queen Kristie’s activities could be driven by the circadian rhythms of her internal bacteria’s life cycle.”

I snorted. “Yeah. Either that or she uses a watch.”

Jimmy winced. “Well, Mr. Gray, I have noticed she always starts the meetings at 7:15 on the dot, and ends them at 8:30.”

“Right,” Grayson said. “That means either the alien bacteria reach critical mass an hour or so after ingestion, or Queen Kristie is