Chapter One

The first was Father Jack Naves, a pale, shy man who seldom smiled, more from his fear of dentists than from a lack of mirth. He was known in the diocese as a plodder without ambition who could be counted on to do what was required of him but nothing more. In some respects, Archbishop Gerard Kerry welcomed his lack of ardor. He had enough prelates who constantly sought his favor in hopes of gleaning a coveted place on one of his special councils, which were widely considered rungs on the ladder to Rome.

But Father Naves never expressed an interest in church politics or any other diocesan function outside his role as pastor of St. Bridget's, a parish in the northwest quadrant of the state that pretty much ran itself. It was blessed (or cursed, depending on what side of the clerical collar you happened to be speaking from) with a roster of "active" parishioners.

In fact, the bishop was barely aware of Father Naves's presence until a parishioner paid him a visit, complaining about the priest's lackluster homilies and his refusal to entertain any new parish programs or to take part in the community's ecumenical events. This particular parish served an affluent, quintessential New England town along with Congregational and Baptist churches and a bustling synagogue. All were nestled along a town green and took enormous pride in a religious esprit de corps. The synagogue shared Passover with Christians, and the Christians lit a menorah each December-functi