Novel Journey Critiques ~ Week 11

Remember, our suggestions are just that—suggestions. The wise author will use discernment and pick up what works for him/her and ignore what doesn't. We've each been edited/critiqued by professional editors, best-selling authors, etc. and no one has been tougher on us than us. Our hope is you and this author, who bravely subbed his/her work, will benefit.

Our critique code is as follows:
( ) = suggest deleting
[ ] = sugges adding
** = comments
gws=goes without saying
rue=resist the urge to explain
im= interior monologue

Original Chapter

December 4, 1962

“Open the door! I wanna see Rosie.” Walter Hutchiss pounded his fist hard, not caring whether he broke his hand or splintered the wood. Stopping his mounting rage was not within his control. Time had proven that.

A deep voice from the other side of the locked door responded. “Go home. You’re not welcome here. Rosemary doesn’t want to see you.”

“She’s my wife and I have a right to see her.” Swearing, Walt wildly kicked his steel-toed cowboy boot into the wood-framed door leaving a splintered dent.

“Move away from the door and I’ll come out and talk to you,” the man’s voice called. His voice carried a mixture of fear and exasperation—a sound Walt had heard before in others.

It’s not you I want to talk to, old man, Walt thought. But I’ll deal with you first. Walt patted the .22 caliber pistol wedged in a back pocket of his faded Levi’s. He knew he would be using it. Without turning around, he descended the steps and backed away from the small porch. An outside light flickered on. He stood in the dirt waiting as a grizzly-looking man in his early sixties stepped through the door.

The small clapboard house stood in the desert on the outskirts of Gemstone, Arizona. The nearest neighbor was probably at least a half mile away. Too far, with the desert wind howling, to hear gunfire. A sudden gust pushed tumbleweed across the barren dirt in front of Walt. He hacked, spitting a wad at the passing brush.

His unarmed father-in-law ambled from the porch, stopping a few feet short of him. He was as tall as Walt was at six-foot-one, but a good hundred pounds heavier. Walt could take him. He was skilled in hand-to-hand combat and had become a sharpshooter before the Army dishonorably discharged him. I shouldn’t have left that sergeant alive to testify against me. Walt’s hot temper had been getting him in trouble since childhood. Nobody understood. Nobody. His grandmother had tried, but for all her God-talk and prayers, he had not changed. Now, even his own wife had turned her back on him and run home to her parents.

“I want my wife and I want her now!”

“Why? So you can whack her around every time you lose your temper? Face it Walt, you’re a loser. Nothin’ but a drunk who can’t hold down a job.”

“Listen good, old man. I make Rosie happy. You can’t stand that idea can you?”

The man shook a meaty fist in the air. “Get off my property!”

Walt reached around and pulled out his pistol.The expression on his father-in-law’s face was akin to surprise. Surprise mixed with horror and realization. The realization that a totally unexpected and horrific act was about to take place. With the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His prey raised his hands in a meaningless act of self-defense.

Hutchiss pumped two rapid-succession shots through the man’s heart. The blood splattering Walt’s t-shirt was like a rush of adrenalin. A different kind of high than booze or drugs gave him.

Sprinting around his fallen victim, Walt felt his own muscles tighten in pleasure as he saw blood pouring from his lifeless father-in-law. He bounded to the porch. The women’s terrified screams coming from the other side of the door only seemed to make him feel stronger, angrier and more determined to finish what he had started. This time using the heel of his boot, he kicked at the door while drilling two bullets through the wood.

There was a gurgling sound and a thud, followed by an anguished shriek.

Anticipating the scene on the other side, Walt kicked harder until the door began to give. He saw the first drops of the women’s blood drip against his boot. It gave him a perverse feeling of satisfaction. He clawed through the wood and turned the inside knob to unlock the door. With an angry shove, the door burst open.

His estranged wife lay on her back. Half of Rosemary’s once-pretty young face was missing. Her remaining eye stared unseeing into his face.

Walt sneered. It didn’t have to end this way, Rosie. It’s your fault. You ruined everything!
His mother-in-law knelt rocking on the floor. With one hand, she caressed her daughter’s hair and with the other, she pressed against a growing red stain on her own dress. The woman turned her head to face Walt. Her lips didn’t move, but eyes filled with horror and pain seemed to scream at him. Why? How could you do this? Do you even know what you’ve done?

Emotionless, Walt walked to the little gray woman and put a bullet through her already-broken heart.

A small wail emanated from the back of the house reminding Walt he had more business to tend. He stepped around the bodies, not caring if he smeared blood along the wood floor. Eight-month-old Walter, Jr., lay crying in a well-used crib in a tiny unkempt bedroom. Walt hesitated before entering the room. His son had his brown hair and shared his gleaming hazel eyes, but the facial features were those of Rosemary—small forehead, high cheekbones, and a delicate, almost-perfect nose.

Wedging the pistol in his waistband, he pulled a Camel from his t-shirt pocket and lit up. He puffed deeply until he began to relax. With the cigarette still dangling, he slid one thumb into a belt loop and slid the pistol out with his other hand.

“You’ve got a real rotten start in life, kid. Your mama’s dead and you’re descended from a murderer who ain’t gonna be around to help ya.”

The baby boy stopped crying. His head cocked toward the melancholy voice coming through the
smoke rings.

“The cards are stacked against you. Maybe you’d turn out just like your ol’ man.”
Walt raised the gun muzzle to his son’s temple and shut his eyes.