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With Music in Their Hearts

By Carole Brown

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Chapter One
December 1941, Pennsylvania

Rejected.

Tyrell Walker stared down at the evaluation form, up at the government issued photo of President Roosevelt mounted on the wall and back down at the paper in his hand. The single word blazed up at him, sneering and final.

Blood pounded in his head and swirled in his mind along with the patriotic band music blaring from a nearby radio. What was going on? How could this be? He’d been healthy his whole life without a day’s sickness other than the usual childhood illnesses. Why all of a sudden was he classified as physically unfit?
And rejected because of it?

“I don’t want this.” He looked across the steel-gray, military issued desk to the man seated behind it, and tapped the papers in his hand. “This isn’t in my plans. I want to serve my country.”

Sympathy flickered, then as quickly vanished in the eyes surveying him. The sergeant’s shoulders reared back as if to ready himself for an argument. “Those are your orders. Go home.”

Sorry? Sorry? Tyrell couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his temper. It was all he could do to force back the angry words threatening to spill from his mouth.

But before he could speak, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. A tall, gray-haired man stood near the door. What was a two-star general doing here? Close behind him, a red-haired woman hovered, her padded shoulders broad and fashionable, her waist tucked in tightly, a large feathered concoction of a hat settled on her head at an angle. A short, checkered-suited older man slouched . . . he’d seen him, but where? Was he a prominent businessman the newspapers featured often? Had he seen him at a luncheon? Both men were gazing at him as if he were a specimen from a scientist’s lab.

Better keep his mouth shut. Chewing out a low-level sergeant wouldn’t do any good. Giving the sergeant a curt nod, he whirled and exited the building. What now?

He had his preaching ministry, thank God. But he’d had his heart set on enlisting. The nation’s declaration of war this month had spurred him to get a head start on the flood of enlistments. Wasn’t this what God wanted or had he missed the plan? Nothing for it but to go ahead and contact the bishop. Still . . .

A payphone booth stood across the street, and he headed toward it and flung the door open. Inserting the change, he dialed the bishop’s number from memory. After the fourth ring, Bishop Victor’s secretary picked up and put Tyrell straight through. The man of God’s low-key, but confident, voice came across the line.

Tyrell explained what happened, fighting to keep the disgust from his voice. The Bishop might be a gentle man, but he held strict policies for his ministers. Tyrell didn’t need him questioning his motives. “Looks like I’ll need the appointment we talked about.”

A pregnant pause filled with nonverbal questions had him wondering if the bishop had hung up.

“Good choice.” Bishop Victor cleared his throat. “We’ll find a post for you.”

What did he mean? Not the one they’d talked about? Had the post been given to a different ministerial candidate? “What do you—”

“Lots of choices to serve your country.” Warmth filled the old man’s voice. “God’s plans for you, my son—”

“What are you saying?”

“I have next Monday open. Come by, and I’ll give you the details.” Bishop Victor hung up.

Knuckles tingling, Tyrell squeezed the receiver in his clenched fist and narrowed his eyes. The man had been too chipper. As if he’d known Tyrell would call. The bishop’s former concern whether Tyrell should enlist had been replaced with—satisfaction.

For the life of him, he had no idea what he’d done to deserve two slaps in the face in one day. Tyrell stepped out of the booth and glanced at the cloudy sky. No sign of the sun, and no sign of God’s face smiling down ready to do battle for him.

The building he’d left stood dark and brooding, not at all inviting or even encouraging to those who might wish a little before signing away several years of duty. It was suspicious, if you asked him. Why the rejection when he was healthier than an athlete? Who were the two men staring at him in the draft station? And why was the bishop playing tiddly-winks with the truth? If he was.

Odd. Very odd.

Flagging a taxi, he crawled into the back seat and gave directions to a hotel. As the driver pulled away from the curb, Tyrell cast another look at the building.
A long, black Oldsmobile Special pulled from the driveway, and for a moment, suspicion chewed at his nerves. Ridiculous. The driver could be a chauffeur going after a military dignitary or delivering one. He slouched in his seat, the better to study the car. But instead of falling way behind the speeding taxi, the car kept pace twenty feet or so behind them.

The familiar tingle tickled his neck. The one that had clued him in right before every trick his best pal had tried on him.

Ten minutes later, the taxi driver’s guttural voice broke into his thoughts. “Say, mister. What you done anyway?”`

“What?”

“I figure you’re either in big time crime or a big cheese.”

Neither of those described him. “Why is that?”

The coffee-colored eyes of the taxi driver met Tyrell’s gaze in his rearview mirror. “Cause the way a certain big black car is staying on our tail. Tried to lose them, but . . .”

His driver’s brows wagged, admiration edging his voice. “Whoever’s driving knows what he’s doing.”

No wonder this ride seemed to take forever. Tyrell glanced out the back window. The car from the government building was following him? He doubted that.

“Don’t want to get involved in any shooting, man.”

Shooting? Tyrell motioned for the guy to stop. He flipped a bill across the seat, exited and slammed the door. He’d see what would happen now. The driver’s fear seemed groundless, but was it?

Resting his palms on the top of the taxi, he glanced back at the idling car. Not good. Slapping the taxi top, he moved back as it sped away, then headed the opposite direction.

The car came to a crawl behind him.

Tyrell eyed the street ahead. On a quick whim, he crossed, took the next house’s sidewalk, circled around the porch, and sprinted around the place onto a graveled alley. Two blocks away, to the left, stood the flashing sign of his hotel. Tyrell turned left.

A vehicle’s tires spinning gravel behind him warned him he’d not lost the black car. Slowing. Creeping. Engine purring. Only a few feet separated him from the car and making a sudden decision, he jogged around the corner and hugged the building trying to put distance between them. The car’s tires squealed as the car sped up. The driver took the corner, gravel crunching and spinning into the air.
They must have spotted him for the driver braked, throwing the passenger forward. Tyrell flung himself at the car and grabbed for the door handle.

The window slid down.

Something tugged at his arm.

And the handle tore from his grasp as the car accelerated.

The seemingly belated, reverberating crack of a gun vibrated the air around him.
The car spun around a far corner, and Tyrell reached up to rub his stinging arm. The sticky wetness drew his attention.

Blood. He saw the tear in his coat sleeve, the minute traces of blood oozing.
He’d been shot?

Why would they—whoever they were—want to shoot at him? It was a scratch, and they’d been close enough to kill him if they’d wanted to.

They didn’t want to. What were they after? A scare tactic? To warn him away? From what? Perhaps all this was a coincidence, a figment of his active imagination.
No sign of the car. Satisfied he was rid of them, he entered the hotel. At the reception desk, he filled out the necessary papers, climbed the stairs, and headed down the hallway.

At the far end, a red-haired woman inserted a key into the lock.

Was she the same woman who’d been in the recruitment office? That hat . . . He called out, “Hey, lady.”

She glanced his way, her luxurious hat tilted at just the right angle to hide one side of her face. With a flip of her plaid skirt, she shoved open her door and disappeared inside.

Tyrell hesitated at his own door, next to her’s, but inserted his key and entered. Inside, he switched on a light then as quickly flicked it off. He stepped to the window.

And drew in a breath as if he’d been sucker-punched.

Down below, across from the hotel, the streetlight reflected off a long, black Oldsmobile. Standing beside the car staring up at the hotel, stood Ben Hardy.

His cousin and best friend.

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