Remember serial stories in the newspaper? Below is the second installment of "Family Heirloom," a personalized short story that I created for Lisa Ackel Judge, winner of the personalized story contest held earlier this summer.
(If you missed Part I, click here to get caught up.)
Family Heirloom: Part II
A loud pop emanated from the beauty salon followed by a chorus of screams. Most were from inside, but a few came from people standing near the makeshift barricade. The police woman looked away for an instant, distracted by the noise. Lisa made her move, sliding under the plastic tape and launching herself through the door of the salon before the officer even blinked.
“Hey!” Lisa heard behind her and she yanked the door closed. One gunman turned, mouth gaping open through the nylons he’d pulled over his face. The other one, smaller and female, held a larger gun. She was faced away from Lisa and did not have nylons or any other type of mask over her head. The sound of the jingling bells slapping against the glass door drew her attention, though. The figure whirled around and Lisa nearly screamed in disbelief.
“Samantha, what are you doing? I can’t believe this!”
“Not now, Auntie, I’m a little busy.
Lisa stood staring at the desk near the front door, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Drawers were pulled out and items hung from them like innards. Plastic capes, latex gloves, cords for curling irons and hair dryers. Curlers in pink, purple and blue were scattered all over the floor. Three women huddled near an overturned display of hairspray and gel while two others cowered beneath dryers on the floor. One of the dryers had fallen over, it’s plastic dome cracked.
“Um, why is your aunt here?” The guy with the pantyhose on his head asked. “Is this part of the plan?”
“No, you idiot!” Samantha yelled in response. Anger management had never been one of her strong suits. “I didn’t expect this. Just go back to looking.” She waved the gun toward the back of the room and several of the women gasped in response. Samantha sighed wearily, looking at Lisa in disappointment.
“I can’t find it. I know it’s here but I just can’t find it. And that stupid,” she drew the word out as through it was made of seven syllables, “woman isn’t telling me anything. I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said, teeth gritted. “But I will if I have to.” She waved the gun menacingly at the clustered women and one began to sob.
“I don’t know anything,” yelled the woman closest to Lisa’s niece. Lisa recognized Cyndi, the shop’s owner.
“I would tell you if I did, but I don’t! Do you really think I’d risk losing my life, all these peoples’ lives over this?” Cyndi’s tone was getting hysterical. “You really are crazy.”
“Shut up,” Samantha snarled and smashed the butt end of the gun into one of the large mirrors. The glass fractured and popped, splintering into a thousand pieces.
“Look, Sweetie,” Lisa said, moving closer to Samantha. “I’m sure if it were here then you’d have found it by now. When you talked about this, I thought you were just joking, you know, having a laugh. I didn’t think for a moment that you were serious.” Lisa paused to moisten dry lips. “This is bad, Samantha, really bad. It’s just a ring . . .”
“Just a ring?” Samantha whirled toward her aunt, the gun trembled in her palm.
Lisa swallowed hard. “There are a whole bunch of police officers outside. Why don’t you just give me the gun and we’ll go out together and talk to them.”
Samantha snorted, shook her head.
“Are you serious? They sent you in here, didn’t they? Wise aunt comes to rescue niece from tragic mistake.” Again, she shook her head. “I’m not leaving. Not until I’ve found it. And if that stupid witch isn’t going to hand it over than I’m going to tear every bit of this place apart until I . . .”
There was a sudden explosion near the back door. For an instant Lisa thought that the young man has accidently shot himself, or maybe a propane tank. Smoke poured out of the door and settled in the room like an uninvited guest.
The women began coughing, the smoke blinding. Samantha made a gagging sound and dropped to her knees, trying to see through the smoke, gun raised in her straight arms.
“Put down the gun! Put down the gun!” A loud male voice yelled. Samantha looked over her shoulder toward the front door, then to Lisa, and then to the rear of the salon. More officers cascaded into the room through the front door, smashing through the plate glass windows. Yells, more screams from the women, a moan from the first gunman who was trying to belly crawl to a nearby closet and was instead flattened like a bug by three cops. Eerie silence filled the beauty parlor. Samantha’s gun clattered to the floor as two officers pinned her to the linoleum. Lisa screamed, protective instincts clawed out of her throat.
“Please, don’t hurt her. Please!” Lisa yelled. Then an officer pushed Lisa to the wall face first, ordering her to keep her hands above her head.
The last she saw of Samantha was her niece struggling against the three cops holding her, screaming about the ring.
To be continued . . .
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