A Jekyll & Hyde Woman.

By A.M. Murray

Does the Jekyll & Hyde tale change when the protagonist is a woman? It does when Doctor Jaquelle uses a daring treatment to help cure an atavistic young boy and then uses the same treatment on herself to overcome her timidity. She unleashes a wanton seductress into the streets of New Orleans. It turns into a battle of good vs. evil but who or what is really evil remains a question until the end

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Murray
• Release date: Apr 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9780965668729

A.M. Murray

A.M. Murray was an immigrant to the USA after WWII, at age 3. He earned a Bachelor's degree in Psychology but then got drafted into the Army during the Vietnam era. He came home and bummed around the country a while, worked lots of jobs, went back to school, got a degree in Photojournalism with lots of grad work in Mass Media. Worked as video producer for a big company but was forced out due to office politics. He wondered if it was him or just his luck. He did some research and came up with a book, "The Best of Luck." Other books done or in the works reflect his experiences, interests -- "The Secret of the Serpent Mound," about death at the mysterious earthen effigy; "In the new Country," about immigrants on a dead end street and the possibility of deportation. "A Jekyl & Hyde Woman," about good versus evil, set in New Orleans.

Book preview

A Jekyll & Hyde Woman

a novella by

A. M. Murray

copyright 2012, A.M. Murray, Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER 1.

This could be it! The big breakthrough. For her treatment, for herself, for everything.

And it scares her to death.

The scale from the psychotic to the saint is in each of us and where we land depends on heredity, chance, fate, fortune, forces we can control and those we can’t. That’s the Menninger theory and one in which she believes.

But now, with her new method, one’s place on the scale is open to manipulation. One can rise above, go from abnormal to normal with just a few treatments. Of course she’s thinking of the positive end of the scale. Not the other end. Not yet.

Up to now it’s been strictly research, with no people involved. Just some animals. Poor disoriented cats and dogs rescued from abuse and even torture. With her treatment they all got over their behavioral problems and acted like normal healthy animals again.

But now it’s going to be a person, a real live human being.

In her modest rooms above her offices overlooking the broad boulevard of New Orleans’ Esplanade Avenue, Dr. Jaquelle uses an old fashioned fountain pen to write in her journal. Her script is dainty and ornate, almost calligraphy:

January 6th. The preliminary experiments have gone well. Now I am ready to embark upon a much more risky phase of the Electro Entrainment Therapy, or EET. I have found a subject. Or his father has found me. Billy is his name, a poor atavistic child who hasn’t responded to any other treatment and has nothing left to lose. I will combine all phases of the EET to break through his trauma, i.e. sound, light, subliminal messages; all delivered with the brain synchronized to alpha current. I'd rather keep all this unheralded until I'm absolutely sure it will work on people as well as it has on animals but a reporter has gotten wind of the process and insists upon doing a story -- with me or without me. I must keep him from distorting or sensationalizing as best as I can. I hope I'm up to the task. I must deal with my own personal demons here as well. This will be as much a test for me as for my process.

****

The sun is just setting and the shadows are long as Mike Navarre, reporter for the New Orleans Times Picayune hurries past Jackson Square. He's late, as usual. He has longish hair, several days growth of beard on his face, is wearing cross training shoes, chinos, short sleeved shirt with an unfashionably narrow tie loose at the neck. It’s nice out. About sixty-five degrees and sunny. New Orleans in February. Mardi Gras is a few weeks away. Like most of the locals, he’s going to want to avoid most of the mayhem. But the tourists love it.

Mike jogs past The Square where the artists are peddling paintings and the milling tourists are gawking or considering a buy. Within the iron-barred confines of the park an old black man in white shirt and baggy black pants is strumming a battered steel guitar. He's off key and no wonder since his guitar has only 5 strings but he sings with gusto and the opened guitar case in front of him has a number of dollar bills as well as an ample scattering of loose change. He sings: Will the circle be unbroken, by and by Lord by and by. Will the circle be unbroken in the sky Lord, in the sky. Undertaker, undertaker, undertaker come and rescue me…

Somehow it seems like appropriate background as Mike leaves the park behind, heads up Chartres Street. The off-key tone fits for sure but he has no idea what the lyrics mean. What circle are they talking about? Oh well, it doesn’t matter, it’s the thought that counts.

The singing fades as he cuts across Rampart and the touristy atmosphere fades too as he comes to broad Esplanade with a nice treed strip in the middle between the double lanes of road. There are a few shops here, a ladies boutique there, a small grocery store. But it’s mostly townhouses of two or three stories, balconies out front, lots of iron filigree in lacy patterns of course. What would New Orleans and especially the French Quarter be without its filigree and fleur de leis? Just another run down city. Don’t even think about the outlying areas, still a mess of rubble from Hurricane Katrina. How many years has it been now? Too many. But New Orleans is not known for its efficiency.

Mike finds the address he’s looking for, opens a front gate in the black wrought iron fence, walks up to a steel windowless door with a bronze plaque that reads: Dr. Susan Jaquelle , MD. He knocks, waits. Notices a tiny camera above the door, looking down on him. He smiles up at it, waves. A moment later the door is opened a crack. A bright ray from the setting sun slants into the dim interior of the house, casts a glow onto a woman’s wary face. An empty reception area and hallway loom beyond. She looks like a lab technician in a long white coat, a stiff lacy collar peeking out at the top. She has a pale oval face with a pointy nose; thin lips, big oval glasses. Her very blonde hair is done up in a tight bun. Yes? she whispers, touching a nervous hand to a hairpin making sure the bun is secure.

Uh, yeah, hi. I'm Mike Navarre, here about the story. I called, made an appointment with Dr. Jaquelle? If you could tell her I’m here? He’s assuming she’s the receptionist.

The woman clears her throat, says, I’m Dr. Jaquelle. I uh, expected you much earlier.

Oh. Yeah, sorry. Seems like I'm always late. Maybe I need a good shrink, huh? I guess I came to the right place, heh-heh.

The good doctor doesn’t laugh, says dryly, Chronic lateness is a sign of passive aggression you know.

No, I didn’t know. But isn’t that an oxymoron? Passive-Aggressive? Well, I’m no ox or moron; I’m just a little late. Better late than never, right?

You know I really have my doubts about this.

I thought we went over that. I'm going to do a story on this electro shock thing whether you cooperate or not. So if you want to insure accuracy and fair play and all that good stuff...

Please! says Jaquelle. She stiffens, looks like she’s been slapped across the face. Please! It’s not shock. I would never condone shock therapy no matter what the current trend. That destroys brain cells. My method heals and restores them. The subject doesn’t even feel…

Just then there is a loud scream Aaah! and a door in the hallway slams open as a young boy comes running out, growling, with bared teeth chomping, going, Arr! Arr! Arr!

Mike pushes the door open a little wider to better see what’s happening as the boy starts to run towards them. Oh God, Jaquelle cries as she steps back toward the wall.

The boy is in a strait jacket, his face and head are like a skeleton -- bony, emaciated, haunted. He is pursued by two men in white coats. One is big and burly and unshaven, the other tall and thin with ear pods around his neck.

Shut the door, don’t let him get away, shouts the burly white-coated man.

Mike steps inside and slams the door closed behind him.