THE NEXT NIGHT Lightning sparked halfheartedly in the east, hurling a few shards of light against the black clouds. Green lurked near the edges, as if anyone who looked long enough would see a doorway into hell—or a tornado, which was often the same thing. As it had been this evening for too many people in the surrounding counties. The small town had been scoured clean by torrential rains, as though Mother Nature had decided to blast every grain of dirt away in a single hour. The World War II soldier glistened high atop his granite plinth in the middle of courthouse square, his bayonet poised to charge. Every business was freshly washed, their creamy limestone walls glowing as if alive under the streetlights. The twenty-four-hour drugstore's neon lights blazed, flashing a multitude of cures for the world's ills. But not for everything. Not for what lay behind endless strands of yellow and black tape beside the ice cream parlor, under spats of harsh white camera flashes. The ice cream parlor had always been one of the most popular gathering places in town.
