Disturbia (The 13th) by Tabatha Manuel Page B

some money off of it and market it like candy. He made a small display with about fifty packages near the register. He figured he could sell a couple for a quick profit and maybe even try a little himself.  If it could help him relax then that would be a good thing.  He was stressed by the overwhelming debt his father had left with the store. Creditors were breathing down his neck and he was on the verge of bankruptcy.  If something didn't happen quick then he could kiss the store and his father's entrepreneurial dream goodbye. 
     
    Time had slipped by quickly and 9:00 am crept up on him like the grim reaper.  Friday was a day he wasn't looking forward to. Summertime with all the kids out of school and with nothing to do, they would surely, like every weekend, be hanging in front of the store coming in and out – some buying, but mostly stealing what little they could find.  In this poor neighborhood, stealing was a way of survival, especially for kids whose parents' food stamps ran out by the middle of the month.  He figured that went with the territory, and out of pity, he fought them as little as possible. 
     
    He pulled the bolt off the door, clicked off the alarm and went back behind the register where he glanced at the 12-gauge leaned against the back wall.
     
     
    ***
     
    Sal slammed the door of his beat up Lincoln he had just recently purchased. It was 15 years old and on its last leg.  Susan had got the explorer in the divorce, leaving him one bad leak away from public transportation.  He looked up at the huge warehouse.  Damn I hate this place.   Hesitation crept in his mind and he was ready to turn around and bail on this place today.  But then he remembered that he needed the money more desperately than he needed peace of mind, so he reluctantly moved forward and stepped through the steel doors to take his post on the factory line.  He reminded himself that the eight dollars an hour he would make today would be worth it, and he would be happy that he had stayed next Friday when he got his paycheck. He could barely breathe as he made his way up the gravel and through the wire gate. The humidity was drying out his lungs and brought back childhood memories of when he was sick with asthma. 
     
    “Sal, my man,” a chubby guy with a baseball hat with a D printed on the front said. He outstretched his hand and they both greeted each other with a slap to the inside hand. 
     
    “How's it looking today?” Sal said.
     
    “Shit, better than being outside in the fucking heat. But Raymond is on some shit today.  He's watching us like a damn prison warden.” Raymond was the line boss.  Sal had a couple of run-ins with him, with Raymond writing him up for attendance and loud talking on the job, but overall he thought everything was pretty okay with Raymond. And his job.
     
    “Oh fuck, well I'll stay out of his way today. Little pussy,” Sal said and then they both laughed. 
     
     
     
    The small black and white TV mounted on the wall above their work area had on the morning news.  At first the factory workers were engaged in frivolous conversations about sex, bills, and the playoffs, but then the gruesome story caught Sal's attention and he was suddenly engrossed in the breaking news of the day.
     
    Breaking News: The police are now calling the five mutilated bodies the work of a serial killer.  The latest victim is a Hispanic woman in her early to late twenties. Police have yet to identify the identity of the victim. The following is a composite of the suspect.
     
    The screen flashes to a sketch of a white male in his early thirties with oval shaped eyes and thick eyebrows. 
     
    His name is David Robinson. The suspect's wife was found sawed in half in their bedroom on Detroit's east-side by her mother today. If you see the suspect, call the police immediately. Do not approach him as the police warn he might be armed and is considered extremely dangerous. 
     
    A helicopter shot of the