THE BLOOD DONOR

PROLOGUE

Charlie Farrell sat at the hand-made table he inherited, caressing the smooth top with his fingers. His gaze followed his fingertips, as they etched the echoes of the decades-old groove: generations of the Farrell family’s customary habit. Whenever someone had something on their mind, or worried, they would caress the same place – the head of the table.

Charlie - lost in memories he wished he could forget - switched his gaze back toward the majestic Rocky Mountains. He thought back to everything that brought him to this cabin, this location, a place he hadn’t been since he was a kid.

The tape recorder sat in front of him, waiting to document his incredible journey. Charlie, reluctant to begin, stood up and paced the floor. Wandering over to the huge picture window, he gazed at the snow-capped mountain peaks, drinking in the pristine beauty. As he stood at that familiar window, he prayed, gaining peace from nature's majesty.

Charlie ventured into the kitchen and fixed a mug of strong coffee, drinking it black. As he leaned against the counter and sipped the fresh brew, he thought about his life, beginning with the first time he knew about Jesus Christ.

Charlie’s experience with salvation had been a profession of faith, which occurred at the age of 32 after coming home for a visit at the invitation of his best friend. Sawyer McLaughlin or Bull as Charlie called him, was a hulk of a man, and yet possessed a heart of gold.

His friend was a devout Christian, and as the few days turned into weeks, Charlie observed and listened to the love of Christ in Bull’s home. In his entire life, he had never witnessed a family that loved each other so much. One Sunday morning, he attended church with his dear friend. After the pastor delivered a message of forgiveness, Charlie found salvation.

From then on, Charlie prayed and read his Bible everyday, went to church on Sunday, didn’t cheat on his taxes, and tried to do right, but still there was something missing.

The way Charlie found that missing part, took him to the very heart of what Jesus went through when He was made flesh.

Charlie walked over to the tape machine and placed his finger over the record button. He paused, trying to find the strength to tell his story. He finally activated the recorder. He hesitated, and pressed the pause button just long enough to pour another mug of coffee. He knew it was just a delaying tactic, but he did it anyway.
Finally, he sat down, released the pause button and began to speak.

Chapter One

My name is Charles Boyer Farrell, (my mother had idolized the French crooner, so yes, I was stuck with that moniker). Everyone calls me CB, or at least they used to.
My metamorphosis began Friday, July 1, 2005. At the time, I worked as a crew foreman for a privately owned hazardous material disposal company called SAF-T-TECH HAZMAT WASTE MANAGEMENT, LLC, located in Newark, New Jersey. SAF-T-TECH had many locations, but ours handled one of the largest regions on the East coast. We handled the disposing of chemical waste products and other hazardous material, and in New Jersey, there was plenty of work.

Though my position as foreman offered me good pay, I tried to maintain a sense of teamwork with my crew by working alongside them. I firmly believed - and still do - that I would never ask them to do anything I wasn’t willing to do myself.

Oh, God, to this day, I wish I had never taken that assignment!

Too choked up to go on, Charlie stopped the recorder trying to get his emotions under control. Finally, he found the inner strength to continue.

Most of my crewmembers were looking forward to spending the Fourth watching fireworks with their families. Our workweek began on Monday and finished on Thursday. We worked ten-hour shifts each day.

In many ways, I envied the life my crew lived – wife, kids, family. It seemed I might never be a family man, but then it had been my choice. It was easier not to have that added burden among my many demons. Besides, I thought it not fair to saddle any woman with a man so crowded already.

I was forty, set in my ways, and lived the family life vicariously through the stories, photos, and the regular invitations to dinner, or barbeques from my crew. Uncle Charlie, the kids called me.
Forgive me I digress.

The morning of the first started out routine. Too soon, I discovered it would be the last sense of normalcy I would experience for a long time to come.

I will never forget the uneasy feeling I got the day before, when my boss told me about the special job.

First, let me say this: corporately, SAF-T-TECH had always adhered to a firm policy of letting the crew know exactly what type of material or chemical we were disposing. This morning was different. I should have listened to the bells and whistles going off in my head, but I chose to ignore it.

My boss, Eric Lassiter, called me into his office late Thursday afternoon. The coolness of the air-conditioning was a welcome relief to the unbearably hot day. Although it was little more than a gutted trailer, Eric had managed to create an atmosphere of comfort.

His desk sat against the back wall of what might have been a living room at one time. On the walls, commendations and plaques of appreciation for jobs well done, vied for room with deer, moose, and fox animal skins, one large, mounted swordfish, and stuffed buck heads. The paneling was a soft white pine, coated in a light stain. Comfortable armchairs dotted the rest of the area, along with a large matching sofa. A low coffee table held magazines, most of which depicted hunters, fishermen, or boats.

After I sat down in one of the cushioned arm-chairs in front of his desk, he began.
“Charlie, I called you in here to let you know that we just landed the biggest contract we’ve ever had. You ever hear of a company called Assure Pharmaceuticals?”

“Who hasn’t? They’re one of the largest companies around. Eric, are they the contract?”

“Yes! Ain’t that a kicker?” He leaned toward me, excitement in his eyes. A pile of papers fell onto the Berber carpet. Eric ignored it.

“We’ll be the most sought after hazmat Disposal Company on the eastern seaboard after this! Don’t you just love it?” Eric finished with a gleam in his eyes. "We can hand out some nice raises all around."

I let out a low whistle. The man was right. Nearly every disposal company in the eastern states had competed for this contract. This would bring in prestige, money, and possible promotions for everyone. SAF-T-TECH would be running with the big boys now.

“Wow, Eric, this is a real coup for us! Congratulations!”

“Thanks, CB. I’ll set up a celebration for all of us. How’s that sound?”

“Anytime you get ready, Eric. I know my men would want to.”

As he presented me with his offer, he laid a bomb on me, knocking the wind out of my initial enthusiasm.

“Charlie, I have a special job for you and your crew. It’s our first assignment for Assure – a sort of testing ground project if you will - to see if we’re all that we claim we are. Are you interested?”

“Eric, you know we’re always interested in making money.”

“One thing, CB - you and your crew will have to work Saturday – this Saturday.” He paused. “Not only will you work Saturday, this job's – Uhm - somewhat unusual.
“I’m counting on you and your crew. I promised the company I would send them the best disposal crew I have to take care of them. CB, you, and your crew are the top team I have. There’ll be a nice fat bonus in it for all of you – if you’re interested.”

“I don’t know, Eric. I promised my men a sorely needed five-day weekend.”

“Now, hear me out, CB,” He paused until he had my complete attention. He went on to explain the details of the job.

“The only way we could get the contract was by allowing them to keep the details of the contents to themselves. We can’t know what’s in the barrels,” he concluded.
He studied my face as he said this. He knew what a stickler I was about safety. He and I had had run-ins over cutting corners before. As though he read my mind, he finished.

“Charlie, this unusual stipulation is exactly why I’m sending you. I know how you are when it comes to the safety of your crew.”

I looked at him incredulously.

“Eric!” I shouted. “Are you crazy, man? Is that even legal? You of all people know how hard OSHA’s laid down the law over proper hazmat disposal.”

“Don’t worry; it is as long as they tell us the precaution level, as well as any procedures in case of accidents. And, for your information, OSHA has all the paperwork and already gave their seal of approval.” He paused, and tossed me a sly grin.

“Listen, CB, if you don’t want to do it,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I can send Stan’s crew. They aren’t the best, but they’ll be good enough if you don’t want to risk this job. I just thought you wouldn’t mind, seeing you’re the only crew with a perfect safety record. Besides, I know how much one of your men - Jeff Williams, isn’t it - needs the bonus money to finish paying off his kid’s hospital bills - doesn’t he?” He paused again. I knew it was for affect. When I still refused to answer, he used my one weakness – my crew.

“Don’t you think you owe it to your men to let them decide if they want this job?”

I hated the way he always seemed to be able to manipulate me. I knew I should let my men make this decisions themselves. Still, there was something nagging at me. Even after I acquiesced to my crew’s decision to do the job, a strong sense of doom lingered in the back of my mind. At the time, I thought I was just being an old father hen.

My crew and I got to the warehouse around 6:00 AM. We had coffee and doughnuts, talked a little while, and ribbed each other before starting the job -- nothing different in our daily ritual.

“CB, wanna come to my house on the Fourth and help my kids and me shoot off fireworks?” Bill Nelson asked.

“Bill, you buying the ammunition?”

“Of course, CB, what else would I do?”

“Sure thing, Bill, I’d be glad to come. There’s just one thing; don’t set me up on another blind date. I hate blind dates!”

Bill slapped me on the back, the other crewmembers laughed as though they knew something I didn’t. I almost changed my mind, especially after Bill shot me a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. I could almost see that yellow feather hanging out of his mouth. They were always trying to set me up with one woman or another.

“CB, one day, you’re gonna meet a woman who’ll knock you down,” Bill countered.

“Sure, Bill, sure I will, when Hell freezes over. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

We knew the job would take most of the day – that was a given. The warehouse was almost to capacity with #3 drums of the mystery chemical.

Number 3 drums held 55 gallons each. The interiors required lining with one coat of phenolic epoxy and the exteriors painted black, with a white top. The closure system consisted of one two-inch, and one, three quarters-inch, bung in cover, gasket, 16-guage bolt ring, and a 5/16 nut and bolt. These drums met Rule 40 DOT specifications, and used for non-regulated products. In part, Rule 40 regulates the hazardous waste and retains the original waste codes - standards set forth by the EPA.

I was always up front with my crew, and they were aware of the potential danger in disposing an unknown chemical.

Larry Hudson, my lead man, had said, “CB, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; not with the promised bonus of $10,000.00.”

My gut instinct was that such a large bonus smelled just like decaying fish. For them, however, that amount of money was enough to motivate them to do just about anything, short of killing someone.

When I first hired on as foreman, many of the crewmembers assigned to me were not exactly thrilled that a young upstart was going to lord over them, but it all worked out just fine. There were ten men under me most of the time, as we handled the big jobs. Sometimes, a couple of the men would take a day off.

This day, all ten were there. I’ll regret taking that job for the rest of my life.

We worked hard to get as many batches loaded as possible for the morning.
Not knowing what the chemicals were, we operated under Level 5 precautions. This meant full gear.

I donned my hazmat suit, complete with breathing apparatus, enclosed hood, tape around the ankles and the wrists, the whole works. For the first three hours, it went like clockwork.

The procedure in transporting any hazardous material waste is complicated. Each crew has a man assigned to count the drums that come out. Each filled transport truck counted as one batch. We counted each batch at least three times before we transported it. Once it arrived at the disposal site, the site team counted them again. Mistakes could prove fatal, and we left no room for error.

I was on forklift duty, and had just finished moving the last of the third batch.

After a quick break, I started batch number four. My crewmen were all in full hazmat gear. Half worked the warehouse with me; the other five drove the special trucks to the dumping site. Dusty Taylor kept count, so he was by the loading docks.

Our hazmat suits came equipped with voice-activated communicators.

“Dusty, can you estimate how many #2 drums will fill the truck for batch four?”

“CB, this truck will take at least 15 more drums of that size than of the #3’s.”

“Roger that.”

I took the forklift over to batch four. As I looked at the drums, I knew I could load at least five of them at a time, safely. These were smaller drums, not like the #3s.
Looking back on the events that followed, I’m positive that there was nothing in my path on my way to the batch area. To this day, I’m not sure what it was I ran over as I headed to the loading docks.

Anyway, I loaded the drums onto the specially designed forklift. I headed back to the docks. Before I could get out of the warehouse I felt the forklift bump something, and it began to tilt. At first, I thought I had it straightened. This forklift, specially designed not to lose loads, wasn’t supposed to tip over. Built with a self- balancing mechanism, I couldn’t understand why I had to struggle to balance the contraption. Before I knew it, the lift had turned over, taking the drums and me with it. The custom-made barrels are supposed to have spill-proof seals to prevent spillage. OSHA came down hard on companies concerning the procedures of hazmat storing.
When I tipped over, one of the barrels blew open, and I mean blew open hard. Chemical inside the barrel shot everywhere. I remember that clearly. As I fell, something sharp on the lift ripped my suit.

I fell right in the middle of the chemical spill. I kept trying to get up, but the chemicals covering the floor made it too slick, I was helpless, just lying there.

The mystery chemical began seeping into my suit. My body felt like it was on fire. I yelled at the top of my lungs into my built-in microphone for Dusty.

All hell broke loose. Sandy Rickson called OSHA then 9-1-1. Derrick Henderson and Marty Phillips, our crew’s safety team, took me to a portable decontamination unit we kept on hand for such accidents. We could haul the unit, attached to a trailer, to any hospital, allowing the victim to continue decontamination.

This was the first time any of us had to use it, but my safety team, well trained and well prepared, handled the situation like the pros I had trained them to be. Their clockwork precision literally and emotionally saved my life that day. They became my lifeline.

By the time I got inside the unit to the special shower in the clean room, the burning had intensified. I tore off my hazmat suit, stripped nude, and rinsed in the solution according to the instructions Assure provided. Then, I went inside the decontamination chamber.

After completing the procedure, EMT’s, trained to deal with hazardous chemical accidents, came inside the unit with me, and began taking my vital signs. They were in full hazmat gear. The paramedics worked quickly, pushing IV fluid at maximum speed to keep my body hydrated.

My safety team transported us to East Side Hospital. A third paramedic followed in the ambulance. I thought it was strange they transported me to a hospital so far from the site, but one of the EMT’s assured me that East Side was the best for dealing with chemical burns.

The paramedic injected something to ease my pain, through the IV drip. Before I could say two words, I lost consciousness.

When I regained consciousness, I couldn’t see. I lifted my hands to my eyes, and felt the bandages that covered them. I was under what felt like a sheet. I could feel heart probes on me, and an IV in my arm. I could barely hear the bleeps of the machines.

I tried to feel my way around to determine where I was. I could feel walls all around me and I knew I had to be in a decontamination chamber. I figured I was in the hospital, but still, I panicked.

I had no idea how long I had been out. I felt around me to see if there was a call button, but I couldn’t find it.

I began yelling for help. Soon a nurse came, letting me know it would be all right.

“Mr. Farrell, you don’t have a call button. There are speakers installed within your hyperbaric chamber, so all you have to do is call. We’ll hear you.”

I hated feeling like such a weakling, but I couldn’t help it.

Although I still had monitors hooked up to me, as well as the IV, I still felt the burning, only now; it seemed to be under my skin.

For the next few days, there is a lot of time missing, but a few things really stand out now.

One of the strange things that happened was late-night visits to my room from a phlebotomist. It was odd that they would come in the middle of the night for something that they could get during the day, or in the morning. In fact, they drew blood every morning. When I commented on it, my duty nurse told me I was hallucinating.

“Mr. Farrell, we draw blood at night for emergencies only,” she told me. “With the medication you’re taking for pain, sometimes mild hallucinations can be a side effect.”

At first, I figured she must be right, but when it continued, I got a very uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Something was wrong – very wrong.

Chapter Two

For the next few days, I endured painful whirlpools. The whirlpools had covers over them to ensure a sterile environment. I spent hours in the hyperbaric chamber, to allow full oxygenation and allow my burns to heal.

They mandated that I wear bandages all over my body to avoid infections or other contaminates. They refused to let me touch my wounds.

After my fourth day in the hospital, I tried telling them that I no longer hurt. They refused to listen to me.

One night, the phantom phlebotomist came into my room. I was groggy from the drugs they kept giving me through my IV.

This night, she spoke to me.

“Mr. Farrell,” she whispered. She was close to my ear, and I could smell her perfume. She had a just a whisper of a Cajun drawl, like faint echoes of her French/Creole heritage.

“Listen, I need to get you out of here. Your burns have healed.”

“WH…what? What are you talking about?” I asked.

“There’s no time to explain now. Here, let me help you get those bandages off.”

I was still so groggy, that I complied before my brain could register that something might be wrong with this situation.

By the time she removed all my bandages except on my eyes; I was fully awake, realizing that I was now naked as the day I was born.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” I demanded. I fumbled for something so I could cover up.

“Mr. Farrell, please calm down! You’re in grave danger. Please trust me.”

“In danger of what may I ask?”

“Please, please – if you value your life, trust me.”

To this day, I’m not sure what motivated me to trust her, but I’m glad I did.

“Charlie - I’m going to call you Charlie since we’ll be spending a lot of time together – I’m about to remove your last bandages, but I’m turning the lights down to give you time to adjust, ok?”

“Fine.”

As she slowly removed the bandages, I had to ask. “What’s your name?”

“Name’s Ambre Boudreaux. I work here – in the lab. Now, keep your eyes closed. The light’s not bright, but it will seem that way for a bit, so take it slow.”

I could feel the last of the bandages coming off, and I kept my eyes closed for a moment. As I opened them, I discovered they were perfect – in fact, I could see better than ever before, which surprised me, since I was far-sighted.

I first looked any place on my body that I could see. There were no burns, no scarring – nothing that indicated I had been exposed to potentially lethal chemicals. I was confused.

“What the Hell? Ms. Boudreaux, please tell me what is going on here!”

“Charlie, listen. Right now, I need to get you out of here, before it’s too late. There are some very strange things going on here. One of the things I can tell you is that you very well could be arrested on murder charges.”

My head jerked up then. What on Earth did she mean?

“Look, lady. I don’t know who you are, or what psycho ward you escaped from, but I’ll be happy to ring my nurse for you. I’m sure they’ll take you right back and give you a nice little pill that will help you sleep. Okay?”

In a flash, she ripped out the call button from the wall. She stood there, and for the first time, I could see her – really see her.

My heart started pounding. Her black hair fell past her hips, even though she wore it in a loose French braid. Her olive skin, darkened by an obvious tan, looked like silk toffee. Her lab coat could not hide the curves of her figure.

Her cobalt eyes, framed by thick lashes shot coals of fire in my direction. I pretended not to notice. We stared at each other, in a catch-22 of wills. I finally broke the spell.

“Ok, lady, you’ve gone far enough, here.” I got up out of bed, and fell to my knees from weakness.

I couldn’t believe it. As I looked up at her, she snickered, and said, “I took some precaution in case you tried to put up a fight. I injected you with a sedative, which will make you weak, but you won’t pass out.”

“The only thing you’re going to do is leave this room before I…”

She interrupted me before I could finish my threat.

“Now listen here, buster! I am determined to save your life, even if I have to knock you out, you got it?”

I simply nodded my head in agreement. I knew she had me – at least for the moment. I figured I could escape her eventually – if she didn’t kill me first.

She helped me get dressed and we headed out into the hallway. No one was at the nurse’s station. She opted for the stairs, rather than the elevators.

“You know, I’m not sure taking the stairs is such a good idea,” I told her. She had to half carry me down the stairwell.

Breathless she said, “We’ll make it, as long as you shut up.”

Almost everything that came out of her mouth caught me off guard. No woman had ever left me speechless until now.

We made it to the employee’s parking garage in spite of everything.

Ambre stopped at an expensive Lincoln Navigator, and unlocked the doors with a remote. She assisted me inside the passenger’s seat, then went around to the driver’s side and got in.

We were out of there fast.

She headed south on Bergen Street, then took a left onto Clinton Avenue. From there, we wound up going north on Interstate 95.

“Where are we headed, Ms. Boudreaux?”

“Call me Ambre. We’re driving to the Cushetunk Mountains. I have a mountain cabin there, with a special lab that I built.”

“Stop the car!” I said it so fast; she hit the brakes before she thought about it. The car behind us almost ran into us.

“What in the Hell did you do that for?”

As I opened the car door, she pulled on my arm.

“Look, I know you think I’m stark raving mad, but if you’ll just hear me out while we’re driving, I’ll tell you everything, ok?”

I noticed her looking in the rearview mirror. Without another word, she hit the accelerator and I barely slammed my door before we took off.

“What was that for?”

“We’re being followed. Trust me though; we’ll lose them in no time.”

I turned and saw a black sedan closing in on us – fast.

Ambre might have seemed crazy just at that moment, but the woman knew how to drive.

We were on I 95 in no time flat. She weaved in and out of traffic as if she was racing in the Indy 500.

Whoever was following us had some spunk as well. At one point, they managed to bump her, which made her drive faster.

For almost two hours, we played a cat and mouse game with the mysterious black car.

Every time Ambre sped up, they would manage to get right on our tail. They bumped us again. The Navigator fishtailed. She straightened it out.

Traffic was thinning out by now. They kept close, bumping us as much as possible.

At one point, they tried to overtake us. Ambre slowed down and allowed them to come alongside us. As they did, a man in the front passenger’s seat pulled a gun, and stuck it out the window. Ambre made a quick look in the mirror, and then suddenly hit the brakes. The sedan was going too fast to stop.

We pulled over, just as a highway patrol car passed us. They stopped the sedan.
The highway patrol offered us our chance to escape. She eased off the shoulder of the road, accelerated and engaged the cruise control.

The time had come for her to answer my questions.

“Now that things have calmed down, would you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Charlie, you’ve been exposed to something so phenomenal, that Assure is willing to use you as their personal human guinea pig.”

“What are you talking about? Human guinea pig for whom, may I ask?”

“Look, I’ll tell you everything, starting at the beginning. First, I think we need coffee, and maybe some food. Do you promise not to try and run away this time?”

“No, I won’t, especially not after the car chase we just had. And, yes, I’m starving.”

We pulled into a Denny’s restaurant, my favorite place to have breakfast.

Once we settled into a booth, ordered our meals, and got our coffee, she began telling me everything.

“Charlie, Assure Pharmaceuticals has some sort of miracle compound that will cure anything, and I mean anything. However, there are some very powerful people; I don’t know who – yet, determined to keep it from public knowledge.