A Horse Named Liquor
James Massaro
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Here’s the set-up:
There’s a three-hundred-year-old colonial estate in historic Saratoga Springs, New York. It has secrets, like time, that old, decrepit, hunched witch.
Berkeley Thatch is the owner.
She’s a nature laureate who spends most of her time outdoors, tilling the pumpkin fields and upgrading the old waterwheel houses and attending to the needs of her animals: twelve spirited horses, two kennels of crossbreeds, a candy corn colored cat forever on the prowl, koi always in the eye of a particular greedy falcon, and an audacious polecat with a must-see coat.
Her day job, she’s a F.B.I. detective.After the murders of three people in a nearby stretch called Mohawk Valley, she’s assigned the cases. One clue at each scene points to the whittled apple: infinite regression. Only somebody with a knowledge of numbers will discover the clues.
Berkeley’s the leading expert in the marriage of mathematics and metaphysics. Plus, her colonial estate has an extensive library and a rare letter by Leonardo Da Vinci, touching on the origin of creation.
Psychologically there are no leviathans in the glossy dark waters of Berkeley’s subconscious.
She’s the high-priestess in the temple of reason.
The daughter of intuition.
Constant repose.
But she has problems.
A lecherous drifter has his eye on her.
Something ungodly has possessed her barn full of horses.
The psychological stains of the murders have got a spectral chokehold on her estate.
And the murderer’s slithery stare is all over a pregnant college girl and she only has fourteen days to save her.
And the murderer’s slithery stare is all over a pregnant college girl and she only has fourteen days to save her.
Classic Literary Fiction with suspense, horror, the paranormal and divine phenomenon.