Bitter Pill Read online

  Contents

  Book Info

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  About This Story

  Bitter Pill

  PsyCop 11

  Jordan Castillo Price

  Find more titles at

  www.JCPbooks.com

  Bitter Pill: PsyCop 11 © 2020 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-944779-13-9

  Electronic edition 1.0

  Dedication

  To Piper Vaughn and Avon Gale for inspiring me to tell Jackie’s story

  And Lady Tif for helping Vic look his handsome best

  CHAPTER ONE

  Funny, how heavily I used to rely on Auracel to put a damper on my abilities.

  Don’t get me wrong. These days, I still saw the appeal. I got a buzz off the pills—maybe not an entirely pleasant buzz, but beggars can’t be choosers—and the drug truly did crank down the ghosts. But I’d become more and more uneasy about the thought of some random pill determining what I did or didn’t see. And lately, I’d been kicking around the idea that maybe there was another way.

  I’d decided to pay a visit to Curious Curios to ask about yoga instead of just making a phone call. What were the chances of me getting a lesson on the spot? Given the clutter, hopefully pretty slim. You know they’re ice skating in Hell when I’m actually glad about clutter. But I was still easing myself into the idea. I didn’t want to do anything hasty like trying out a pose. Especially not in public.

  I forced my way through the consignment co-op where Crash and his beau now peddled their wares, and told myself to buck up and deal with it. If they tried to make me yoga, I’d yoga. Sure, I stunk at it and I’d end up with a charley horse, but in the end, what really mattered was the way it affected my mediumship. Sad but true, in terms of harnessing my ability, putting my body through a bunch of awkward poses had yielded undeniable psychic results.

  Fucking yoga.

  Several paperwork-heavy weeks ago, I’d wrapped up my first undercover assignment. Since then, my mind kept going back to the fleeting moment of empowerment I’d felt when I stood up from the mat…and realized I could affect my ability with something that didn’t leave wicked drymouth and a one-eyed headache behind. And it was time to admit I needed help.

  Curious Curios had been in business for a while now, and Crash and Red were looking more settled in. The strange furniture and assorted oddities had seemed random back when they’d first hung out their shingle. Now, the stuff had settled into its best advantage just as seamlessly as Crash and Red had settled into their roles as official boyfriends. Crash had always struck me as too independent to be tied down. And yet, here he was with a guy who not only shared his livelihood, but his bed. And they hadn’t strangled each other yet.

  Then again, couldn’t I say the same for me and Jacob?

  Currently, Crash was with a customer. As much as he’s always claimed people are a pain in the ass, he’s a major social butterfly and an extrovert of the highest order. A certain type of customer always responded to his breezy, conversational, low pressure sales tactics. Red was more thoughtful and deliberate. While Crash talked the woman’s ear off, Red was tending to the store by tidying up a display of peacock feathers. His close-cropped hair shimmered in the same opulent, iridescent colors, purples and greens and outrageously vibrant blues. He greeted me with the slow, easy smile that broadcasted the epitome of calm. Which, of course, only made me more self-conscious. Especially when he focused his whole and undivided attention on me.

  “What’s up?” I went for a fist bump—and since when have I ever so much as attempted a fist bump?—then shifted to a stilted wave.

  Red acted like he didn’t notice. He’s gracious that way. “Our YouTube channel is finally taking off.”

  I’m about as savvy on social media as a Neanderthal living under a rock. Other than a fake identity constructed by my employers, my online presence is nil, so I don’t tend to encounter the types of posts and memes and photos other people share with their family and friends. But I nodded along like having your own channel was a perfectly normal thing that I understood, and Red kept talking. “Are you familiar with ASMR?”

  The Association for Some Majorly Random…um…. “Not exactly.”

  “It’s short for autonomous sensory meridian response—a feeling certain people get from a variety of different things. The sound of plastic crinkling. The swish of the wind through a tree. And whispers—lots of folks are into whispers.”

  Oh, that wasn’t creepy at all. I brushed a shuddery feeling from my forearm.

  “You’ve heard of it?” Red asked.

  “Let’s just say the kind of whispers I deal with aren’t something a normal person would want to encourage.”

  As the customer headed out toward the communal register with an antique music box cradled in her arms, Crash slid into the conversation without missing a beat. He eyed me critically and said, “I’ve always thought normal is entirely overrated, but in your case, I could see why you’d be hesitant. But we’re just talking a fun frisson of goosebumps, not a visit from beyond the grave.” He pulled out his phone and a set of headphones. “Here, give it a whirl and see what you think. I promise—nothing’s haunted.”

  Crash called up a video. The production value was surprisingly good. Gentle music. Soft-focus flowers nodding in the wind. And then I realized it was just an ad for some over-the-counter herbal remedy. “What’s with the ad?”

  “A word from our sponsor—that’s what pays the bills. And now the fun begins.”

  The ad ended, and switched to a shot of Red. He was seated at a desk in a dimly lit room with a stack of tissue paper at his side. He looked directly into the camera with that profound, soul-searching gaze of his that left me wanting to slink away and hide…and then he smiled a slow, easy smile and said, “Today we’re going to fold some paper.” Was that code for something? He said it with such gravity it seemed like it must be. He proceeded to draw a sheet of tissue off the stack and do exactly what he said: fold it.

  “I like the blue. It’s such a rich and vibrant color, somewhere between teal and aquamarine….”

  He went on in that vein, voice low and intimate, commenting on the color, the texture, the sound. After about a minute, I said, “People actually watch these?”

  “I know, right?” Crash cracked a grin. “I don’t experience the elusive tingles my
self—probably too hyper—but Red has some pretty devoted followers.”

  Red gave a demure shrug. “It’s not worth getting a big head over. You know how it is, in one day and out the next.”

  “And I’m sure most of them are just perving on him,” Crash added with a leer. “But editing the video is fun and I dig brainstorming ideas for new content—and most importantly, the sponsors are happy with us—so we might as well make hay while the bandwagon’s in town.”

  I handed the headphones to Crash with a shrug. “Whatever floats their boats.” After all, I saw dead people. Who was I to judge if someone got their jollies from listening to Red fold paper? “So, is this a physical thing? Or psychological? Or—?” Some kind of psychic talent the powers-that-be had never managed to document?

  Red said, “There are theories, but nothing conclusive.”

  Welcome to my world. “Speaking of which…do either of you know why yoga would act as a psyactive?”

  Crash said, “I’ve done plenty of yoga, but only for the least elevated of reasons. I dig the way it makes my arms all chiseled.”

  Red didn’t look like he believed Crash, but was happy enough to let him pretend to be only incidentally spiritual. “I’ve heard rumors,” Red said. “But given how competitive certain New Age types can be, I didn’t pay them any mind.”

  Crash said, “Maybe you need to be at a certain level to tell the difference. Us lowly undocumented peons with no training might not get much of a boost from, say, a ten percent increase. But the walking Ouija board? Look out!”

  “Be nice,” Red murmured.

  Crash was smiling, though, mostly with his eyes. “Vic can tell when I’m just yanking his chain. Seriously, though, of all the things you’ve tried, yoga’s gotta be the most benign.”

  “Tell that to my hamstrings.”

  “Let me guess,” Crash said. “You want to skip all the rigmarole of maintaining a yoga practice. You want to figure out which particular pose jangled your subtle bodies into alignment and cranked up your inner dial to eleven. And you want to be able to do it on the spot when you’re dealing with a scary-assed ghost.”

  “You don’t need to make it sound so unlikely.”

  “How many times have I told you to start meditating? How many times have I laid out the chakra cleanse? And how many times have you utterly and completely blown off my advice?”

  “I…tried. It’s confusing.”

  Red said, “Different practices work for different people, and maybe yoga really is the best practice for you. I could help you. I just took a four-week workshop at Rainbow Dharma.”

  “That’s too much to ask—”

  Crash cut me off. “If he didn’t want to help you, he wouldn’t offer. Listen, if you don’t commit to a practice, it’s not gonna magically happen. Plus, all that floorspace in your loft is just begging to be put to constructive use. So stop acting like you’re not getting exactly what you came here for and just say thank you.”

  “Okay,” I said weakly. “Thanks.”

  “Cool beans. Now help us knock the cobwebs off the top of that credenza. Neither of us can reach it.”

  What the heck had I just gotten myself into? The rest of the visit went by in a blur. Not because we were doing anything particularly unusual…but because I suspected that I was on the cusp of taking some real control of my talent.

  Either that, or I was about to make myself look like a major, grade-A dumbass.

  Once I’d dusted all their highest shelves and eaten half a leftover vegetarian burrito, I was getting ready to leave when Crash said, “Everyone wants a magic pill. But unless your main problem is maintaining a hard-on, it’s unlikely you’ll find such a simple solution.”

  Red’s brow furrowed. “For a minute there, I thought you were talking about Kick.”

  I perked up at the sound of a street drug I hadn’t yet heard of. Not as an ex-cop, either…but a guy who tends to like pills a little too much. “I’ve never heard of Kick—what is it?”

  Red said, “Short for psychic. People say it’s like mescaline without the jitters. And for some folks, the visions they have while they’re on it come true.”

  Crash was less impressed with the drug’s pedigree. “I’m sure it’s nothing but adulterated sinus pills and wishful thinking.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said. “Psyactives are real. They’re hell on your body, for sure—and without Con Dreyfuss handing out drugs like Halloween candy, I wouldn’t even know where to scrounge them up—but they exist.”

  A gaggle of after-work customers drifted in. Red unfolded gracefully from the multicolored embroidered cushion on the floor where he’d been sitting, and Crash hopped down off the credenza. But before Crash joined Red in greeting the throng of shoppers, he leaned in and said to me, “I can see that the wheels are turning, and no matter how I attempt to dissuade you, you’ll only be more determined to try it. Just do me a favor. Before you swallow candy from a stranger, have your guys at F-Pimp check it for razor blades first.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I pulled up to Mid North Medical—which I still thought of as The Clinic—wondering if anyone there would be able to tell me more about Kick. Yes, they were all highly trained medical professionals in the field of Psychic Health. But the majority of Psychs I knew personally wanted to dial their talent back, not crank it up.

  Then again, I couldn’t speak for every level. I’d never once swam in the shallow end of Psych.

  I did a little double-take when I saw the new receptionist, even though I’d been encountering him for the past several weeks. All those years of seeing Patrick Barley sitting at that window had left quite an impression. And even though, intellectually, I knew The Assassin was in the wind, part of me still worried that one day he’d pop through the window like a bespectacled jack-in-the-box and blow my brains out. The new guy—Troy something—was forgettable. Fortyish, Caucasian, slightly overweight. But Patrick Barley’d had that “everyman” persona down pat, and he’d been anything but. So Jacob had gone through Troy’s records with a fine-toothed comb.

  His work history seemed legit—if managing a team of mall cops is your idea of legit. Maybe his job experience made everyone at The Clinic feel more secure…though you couldn’t compare the potential for a hostile anti-Psych mailbomb to a group of teenage girls pocketing cell phone cases at the kiosk….

  Troy glanced up as I flashed my F-Pimp ID. Obviously, he recognized me by now, so I just did it as a courtesy. When he saw it was me, he perked up and said, “Oh, hey. Did you catch the new episode of Ghost Wars last night?”

  “Not…really.” I’d told him I wasn’t big on TV in at least three prior conversations. Which didn’t stop him from giving me a play-by-play of last night’s lineup every time I saw him. Every damn time.

  “They were off the coast of Maine at a site where at least four shipwrecks were recorded, but there were probably a lot more they didn’t know about. And the equipment started to fail just after midnight—”

  “Anyway, I’ll catch you later,” I said, with no intention of actually doing so. Guess the aftermath of Patrick Barley had left me a little twitchy.

  Me and everyone else. Word travels in the world of Psych, and as much as Laura tried to keep things under wraps, the staff at The Clinic was fully aware that the current FPMP attention was more than just a routine audit, and they were glad for the backup.

  As a patient, I’d always found the medical staff to be professional, if detached. But now, in my official capacity as an agent of the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program?

  I actually garnered sustained eye contact and the occasional smile.

  In fact, they seemed as impressed with me as they were with Jacob. And given the way people fawn over him, that’s saying a lot.

  I found Jacob in the records room surrounded by teetering stacks of paper files, picking through for any potential leads on a certain Dr. Kamal. Patient records had been digital since The Clinic was first built a dozen years ago, but admi
n records? On paper, at least in those early years…the ones when Kamal ran the joint. And the paperwork having to do with Kamal? It was as if it had somehow disappeared.

  Imagine that.

  Jacob was hunched over the desk with his jacket off and a pair of drugstore reading glasses perched on his nose. He hated the things, but had given up on acting like he didn’t really need them to see the fine print. Especially now that he’d gone up a magnification since he started sifting through the haystack back at the end of February. There’s no use in telling him he looks hotter than the glasses models on the optometrist’s wall when he wears them. Or like a soap opera actor when he turns and whisks them off just so. They make him feel a little self-conscious. And that’s kinda cute, too.

  He looked up from his work and locked eyes with me. We regarded each other with the satisfaction of knowing we’d managed to shoehorn me into his investigation without raising any eyebrows. All it took was the claim that my car was in the shop. Of course, it actually was in the shop—I’m no dummy. I wasn’t about to botch an excuse that was so easy to double-check. The mechanic who dealt with my complaints about “that weird rattling noise” seemed happy enough to keep taking our money, and I now had a valid reason to car-pool, so it was a win-win all around.

  Our scheme went like this: I showed up to collect Jacob and was admitted on my FPMP credentials. Jacob claimed he just needed “a few minutes to wrap things up.” And I got to poke around The Clinic while I waited.

  Worked like a charm.

  Jacob fell into the ruse easily enough that I should probably be concerned. “Listen, I know it’s late, but I’ve got one more file I need to look at. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Fine.” I’m not a stellar actor, but I think I sounded like I thought I was doing him a favor. “I’ll just…go say hi.”

  The women in the office were particularly nice to me these days—probably because I was willing to eat all the baked goods they were constantly plying Jacob with—but instead of ruining my appetite on someone’s homemade lemon bars, I veered toward the in-house pharmacy instead.