Behind the Bonehouse Read Free

this easily as a part of everyday business. It’s not healthy for an organization to have one or two Mr. Fix-Its who solve every problem.”
    Carl smiled and said, “No? I thought speed was the issue.”
    â€œNot speed alone. And Bob shouldn’t be bothered with it. There’re too many things only he can do. The formulating and fermenting of the vaccines and antibiotics. Field testing them too, with the UK vets. Horse care products and simple medications aren’t as interesting to him, and we need to master this ourselves. Chemical manufacturing processes are beginning to change more rapidly now, and this will help us keep up.”
    â€œMy responsibility is the lab.” Carl wasn’t looking at Alan, but staring off toward reception.
    But Butch looked at Carl, before he glanced at Alan. “My responsibility is to take the formulas I get from the lab and manufacture the way I’m told.”
    â€œPrecisely.” Carl nodded and crossed his arms across his belt. “Again, as I said before, if you can’t do it, and if speed in scale-up is—”
    â€œBelieve it or not, I have a great deal of experience with scale-up in pharmaceuticals, as well as formulation. But me being a dictator would end up being harmful. This is an opportunity for all of us to learn and develop.” Alan stopped, and made himself smile, before he said, “Anyway, have a good Fourth. Hope you’ve got power at home.”
    Butch said, “You too.”
    Before Carl said, “Goodnight,” and started toward the front door, with Butch following behind.
    Alan sighed, then smiled at Vincent, and walked back into the lab.
    Friday, July 12th, 1963
    The following Friday night, Alan and his wife, Jo, went out to dinner in Lexington—Jo in a black linen suit with the skirt left half unzipped, and her tan silk blouse hanging loose to postpone the sewing of maternity clothes. Her pecan colored hair was wrapped on the back of her head so the curly ends swirled on one side, and Alan smoothed a stray end, before he sat down across from her.
    They talked about all kinds of things the way they always did—her work as an architect helping to restore White Hall, the mansion that a hundred years before had belonged to Cassius Clay, the street-fighting abolitionist who’d been Lincoln’s ambassador to Russia.
    Jo talked about being pregnant for the first time too, and how four months felt different than it had before, and how she was trying to figure out what she should stop doing now with the horses they boarded on the farm.
    But when Jo asked Alan how work was going, he clammed up without warning.
    â€œWhat about the antifungal shampoo you formulated? How’s that selling?”
    â€œBetter than we expected. The fungicidal ointments too. The exclusive contract with Bayer for the fungicide has given us a real advantage.”
    â€œHow’s the de-wormer going?”
    â€œMore or less the way I was afraid it would.”
    Jo leaned back in her chair, her straight black eyebrows pulled close together over dark blue purposeful eyes that were fixed right on Alan’s.
    She sat and watched him look away, the scar along the left side of his jaw white against the five o’clock shadow that had already taken control. Then she set her elbows on the table and wove her fingers together. “What?”
    â€œWhat d’ya mean, what?”
    â€œWhat’s going on, Alan?” She watched him silently, seeing more than he wanted her to, her eyebrows arched analytically.
    He told her then, for almost half an hour—about Carl and Butch, and that during the last week, Bob Harrison was either irritated with him, or avoiding him altogether. Bob normally went out of this way to consult Alan, and seemed to enjoy discussing the vaccines he was working on, but he’d been keeping to himself, and hardly looking at Alan when Alan went to talk to him, and the chill rolling off him