Collin Doherty: The winner

The restless night had Collin tossing and turning in his musty apartment above the rectory. He kept his windows open for a cross-breeze, but Philadelphia's August night had no wind but plenty of heat and humidity coming off the Schuylkill and Delaware Rivers. He tossed and turned, unable to catch the nightly ride to sleep, but finally did drift off.

The undiscovered world had him racing down Locust Street. A blinding light from above made it impossible to see as he navigated the strollers and walkers of Rittenhouse Square. He passed St. Mark's Episcopal Church, eyeing Agnes's mother-in-law in a light beige gown with matching hat and veil, shaking her priest's hand on the way out from Sunday services. He passed the Academy of Music, where Agnes and her Mr. Larney were performing a recital, their names above Schubert and Beethoven on the marquee. He made his way onward, always forward, huffing and puffing as he passed Washington Square. On the left, he saw the Athenaeum, the architects' library that in his squinting eyes was purple, not white.

And then it came to him that another man raced beside him on the left. Who could it be? Was it the enigmatic Martin Limerick, his sister's long-dead husband? Yes, he could recognize the pince-nez, the tightly wound features, the grays and browns that he had always worn. Martin Limerick ran beside him, urging him to greater speed, heavier breathing, more profuse sweating. And then another man joined them, this one on his right, a much younger man. A very fit man with dark hair, a chiseled, square jaw, black-framed glasses whose blue eyes pierced through the brightness. Could it be him, the man who'd taken Agnes, his favorite niece, away from the Church? The man who'd died in the war, not even a year ago? Yes, Norman Balmoral raced on his right.

The three of them sprinted to faster speeds, every block swimming by them like the scenery from the train to Pittsburgh. And though Collin knew the six blocks from Washington Square to Front Street could be covered in only a fraction of time, he felt the closer they got, the faster they ran, that it only seemed further away. Were Martin and Norman leading Collin to his own death? What was it the three of them were trying to reach? Just what goal eluded Collin, Martin, and Norman?

The sound of the window banging against its frame woke him up. Night sweats soaked his sheets. The weather had finally broken and a heavy, windy rain soaked the streets of Philadelphia.