When Hannigan drives out of St. Martinville, he does so with the distinct sense that he will never see the town again. He doesn’t know why he should feel this; in all likelihood he will be back again in just a few weeks’ time, when they put Willie Jones back into the chair. Barring a miracle, Hannigan can’t see the execution being stayed, and there are no miracles.
At first Hannigan had thought it was a miracle tonight when Willie survived the chair, but only for a matter of seconds before he began to see it as he sees it now: a cruel trick. Now, Willie must live his last days all over again. His parents will have to suffer the waiting again, too. Hannigan can see them in his mind’s eye, holding each other in the darkened doorway of their home after he had given them the news half an hour ago: their boy had survived to die another day.
Hannigan stares straight ahead, where the highway comes at him out of the night. He wishes he could drive right into it, that darkness beyond the ring of his headlights—even as he understands that this is as impossible as it is to step away from your own shadow.
Except, he thinks, that it isn’t. Without questioning the impulse, Hannigan snaps the headlights off; immediately he is swallowed up in darkness. He grips the wheel firmly as the car flies through the night; he can see nothing, even as he feels the hot wind of speed pouring in through the open window. He takes a breath and steps more firmly on the gas, his blood rushing with rash exhilaration; the engine roars as the car accelerates, shuddering down the highway. And then, with a lurch that knocks his head against the windshield, it veers off the highway and into the scrub along the side of the road, where finally Hannigan lets the car come to rest.
He sits in the darkness, breathing heavily, as if the car’s efforts had been his own. The engine ticks loudly beneath the hood, and the sounds of the night, which had been drowned out by the motor’s noise, seem loud in the silence: crickets, an owl, a creature scurrying. Hannigan touches his head on the spot where it hit the windshield and his hand comes away red with blood. He regards his hand dispassionately, and wipes the blood off on his shirt.
When he looks up, he sees a pair of approaching headlights in the distance, and he hopes that the driver won’t see him and stop. He doesn’t want to have to explain. He’s not sure how he would, and to consider what he’s just done nearly makes him laugh; he feels liberated, and also a little bit crazy.
Hannigan is glad when the passing car whizzes by in its own noisy ring of light, and then it is just a pair of taillights fading in the distance. For a moment, Hannigan watches after it. Then he turns, starts his own engine, and steers the car carefully back onto the road.