He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.
"That's my house," said Leonard Mead. No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty river-bed
streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.