MAX insisted they take his car, since he’d just been out driving and the car’s engine and heater were still tepidly warm. So Afton found herself scrunched into the passenger seat of his Hyundai Sonata, amid a clutter of Red Bull cans, McDonald’s wrappers, and assorted tube socks. A hockey puck was half wedged between her seat and the seat back, so she dug it out and tossed it behind her, where it clunked against a trio of hockey sticks.
“Hockey season,” Max said as he shot past the new Vikings stadium and slid down an icy freeway ramp. He punched his defroster button, which had the reverse effect of clouding the interior of his windows with a thin skim of ice.
Afton grabbed a plastic ice scraper and attacked the windows, as Max, a notorious speeder, hurtled north on 35W at seventy-five miles an hour. He passed traffic and wove in and out of lanes like he was lounging at home in his sweatpants playing Grand Theft Auto. Afton felt a different kind of worry creeping up on her. The kind where you feared you might end up in a ditch waiting six hours for a tow truck to arrive.
“If you’re going to survive in Minnesota,” Max said as he hammered down on the accelerator. “You have to have seat warmers. In fact, you have to have—at a minimum—front-wheel drive and seat warmers.”
The car exited 35, looped around an on-ramp, and swerved onto 694 West. When they finally slowed behind a line of cars that were clogging the left lane, Afton let out her breath slowly. A thermometer on a sign read 15 below.
“Legally, the guys at Novamed may not be able to say much,” Max said. “Even if Darden really did steal their company secrets and jump ship.”
“Do we know that for a fact?” Afton asked as tiny ice pellets began to beat fiercely against the windshield.
Max turned on the wipers, swore when the entire windshield smeared horribly, and then cut over into the right lane. His defrosters sputtered and the interior was starting to ice up again. “Scrape off that gunk right in front of me, will you?”
Afton scraped.
“Good,” Max said as ice chips flew. “Thanks. Anyway, Darden as traitor. That’s been the party line so far at Novamed.” He shrugged, the shoulders of his parka rising and making a swishing sound. “We’ll see if they’ve changed their tune.”
They turned off at the 129th Street exit, and then wove their way down Larch Lane. After slip-sliding for a mile or so, they passed a stand of birch trees that was too perfectly geometric to be natural, then turned at a large silver sign that said NOVAMED, and into a driveway that was surprisingly clear of snow. In fact, Novamed’s entire parking lot had been scraped clean. There was barely a glimmer of any snow or ice at all, which probably accounted for the two large piles of snow, pushed to the side of the lot and towering almost twenty feet high.
Novamed’s large ochre-colored building was built in the form of an immense letter U. Though invisible now, the grounds were spectacular in summer—a large pond buttressed against a cobblestone patio, crab trees that flamed pink and red in spring. Large silver placards on the side of the building listed the various entrances: VISITOR ENTRANCE, DELIVERIES, EMPLOYEES ONLY. It looked to Afton that one entire wing was designated as offices, while the other wing consisted mainly of laboratories. Probably for R&D, research and development.
They parked and, ducking their heads into the wind, headed for the front door. Once inside, it was like entering a pristine art gallery of some sort. White marble floors, white walls, a white modular seating arrangement—not really couches, not really chairs—and a wall of windows that looked out over the grounds. No artwork, no area rugs, nothing but a large white front desk staffed by two young men in dark suits. Everything sterile, cool, and clinical.
Max flipped out his badge to show the two receptionists, who might, or might not, double as a security detail. “Max Montgomery and Afton Tangler,” he said. “We have a three thirty appointment with your CEO, Bruce Cutler.”
One of the men glanced at his computer screen and said, “Yes, we have you here. And you’re right on time.” He seemed pleased at their punctuality. The other man slid a black leather book across the counter and asked them to sign in and note the exact time of day. Then he gave each of them a plastic visitor ID badge to clip on to their clothing.
The computer screen guy said, “Andrew will show you to your meeting.”
“Thank you,” Afton said.
They followed Andrew down a hallway, where he badged them through a set of sturdy-looking security doors.