Perfect Payback, page 1
Copyright © 2021 by Bill Briscoe
All rights reserved.
License Notes
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Lori Freeland
Cover Designed by Fiona Jayde Media
Formatting by The Deliberate Page
Available in eBook & Paperback
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9986425-9-8
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9854280-0-1
http://billbriscoe.com
This book is dedicated to the memory of
Frederick Jules Pepperman III.
Although we never met,
we became acquainted through my stories.
May the memory of this heroic father live on.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
Other books by this author:
A Word from the Author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
June 1999
Bartlesville, Oklahoma
Lightning cracked above the house like ice fracturing a frozen pond. Wind whipped the limbs on the sycamore tree back and forth like flimsy straws and ripped the canvas awning that covered the patio. The fabric slapped violently against the metal supports. Torrential rain slammed the patio door, forcing its way under the frame.
The door blew open, and I fought to close it, my six-four, two hundred fifty-pound body almost useless against the gale-like winds. Oklahoma’s weather in late spring and early summer was notorious for freakish storms. But this? This was insane!
“Laura,” I yelled to my wife. “Check the windows in the boys’ rooms.” I hoped they’d remembered to close them before leaving for baseball camp, but I had a sinking feeling they hadn’t.
A streak of bluish-white light flashed across the kitchen followed by an angry growl of thunder, killing the power and kicking up my heart rate.
The entire house shook, and the roof seemed to explode. Weather sirens broke through the cool rain-soaked air, the ear-splitting roars mimicking the noise from a WWII documentary.
I froze for a second, then screamed over the storm, “Laura, get away from the windows.”
Racing up the stairs, I caught my foot on a step and almost fell.
Another lightning blitz followed the first and came with a boom that barraged the house again. Bam, bam, bam. Hail hit the window at the end of the hall and pounded against the brick exterior.
I barely saw Laura pressed against the wall shaking, legs pulled to her chest, hands cupped over her ears.
Sinking to the floor, I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her tightly next to me, so close her breath warmed my arm where she tucked her head.
Downstairs in the kitchen, glass shattered against the tile floor. The picture window must have given way to the unrelenting assault. And then… the deluge just stopped. The storm moved on, and the sun peered through the windows.
I got up and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.
Laura still clutched her knees tight against her chest.
“You okay?” I knelt next to her.
She nodded, looking at me with a crooked grin. “I wet my pants.” That expression and her frank admission broke the tension.
My laughter echoed against the wall. “I can’t wait to tell the triplets when they get back.”
She pointed her index finger at me. “Don’t even think about it.”
I extended my hand. She latched on, and I pulled her off the carpet. “Let’s go check the damage.”
“Not until I change my pants and clean the carpet.” She tugged on her jeans and wiggled.
I shook my head. Only my wife would worry about a small pee stain on a carpet where three boys had tracked more dirt and grime than a Texas cattle drive. You had to love her. And I did. I’d loved her since my first day of high school in 1966.
The damage downstairs wasn’t as bad as I’d expected—only one of the two picture windows had been knocked out. While I waited for Laura, I swept up the shards of glass and covered the empty space with a plastic sheet before heading out to the backyard. A huge branch lay sprawled across the roof. I cleared some of the small limbs from the patio and went back inside.
Laura came out of our bedroom, drying her hair with a towel.
“Did you have to shower and wash your hair too?” I couldn’t resist.
She squinted, doubled her fist and shook it. “Not another word, buster, or I’ll put an end to the night gymnastics for a couple of weeks.”
I extended both hands, immediately defeated. “Got it. Let’s go check the attic for damage.” We each grabbed a flashlight from the hall closet, and I pulled the ladder down from the ceiling and went first.
Laura gave me a good-natured goose—exactly what I’d expected her to do—and I grinned.
But my grin didn’t last long. Considering the size of the tree limb sprawled across our roof, I feared the worst. Rubbing a nervous hand across my mouth, I held my breath and shined my light on the rafters.
The splintered glow gave the attic an eerie Raiders of the Lost Ark feel, but no structural damage was evident.
I let out my breath and choked on the dust the tree had stirred up.
I glanced across the cluttered space—cardboard boxes, old toys, baby beds, Christmas decorations. “If a fire started here, the house would go up like kindling.”
“Uh huh,” Laura muttered from across the corner opposite me.
“We should get rid of some of this stuff.” We’d been in this house fifteen years, but I wasn’t ready to give up the memories it held quite yet.
“Jim, come over here.” The excitement in Laura’s voice carried across the dark space.
I couldn’t imagine what had grabbed her attention. Joining her, I skimmed my light across an old wooden chest with a padlock and a tag with the word Attic attached to the lock. “I don’t know what this is. I’ll get the bolt cutters from the garage.” I hurried back to the attic, cut the lock, and lifted the lid, skimming my light across paper-thin fabric clinging to the inside of the old chest.
Laura picked up a photo. “Who are these people?”
I took the picture from her. “It could be…” I checked the back. “Yes, it’s Dad and his cousin Hans Pepperman.”
Laura took the picture. “The year was 1936. It says Patrick, your dad, was ten years old. Why haven’t I heard about Hans?”
“Dad never talked much about his cousin.” I didn’t know anything about Hans. “What else is there?” Curious, I pointed my flashlight inside.
Laura handed me two letters—one from my Grandfather Wilhelm and one from my dad addressed to Hans. Then she unfolded a white sports jacket. The left pocket had a black patch with an eagle and a white swastika. A label inside read, “1936 Olympische Spiele.” Laura turned to me. “Do you know what these words are?”
Speechless for a moment, I slowly nodded. “Olympic Games.”
“Your cousin participated in the 1936 Olympic Games?” Her eyes widened, and admiration spread across her face.
“I guess so.” I crouched on one knee. My chest twitched with pride. Why had Dad never told me? I shook my head repeatedly, not able to fully grasp the thought of a Pepperman participating in the Olympics. The joy was exhilarating.
Laura picked up a program that listed times and places of events. Then she carefully lifted a leather binder with a copper clasp and traced her finger over the name Hans Joachim Pepperman. “Let’s take it downstairs. I want to read it.”
We climbed down the attic ladder and went into the living room.
“I’m calling Mom to see if she knows anything about the trunk.” Dialing her number, I anxiously waited for her to answer.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Mom. I need your input on something. I found a trunk in our attic, and it’s full of things belonging to a Hans Joachim Pepperman. Who is he? Do you know anything about him or how the trunk got in my attic?”
She cleared her throat.
I sighed. “That doesn’t tell me how it ended up in my attic.”
“Don’t you remember? When the truck picked up Laura’s things to move to Bartlesville, I had the trunk put on the van. It was the day after you and Laura left on your honeymoon. I told you about it. Or at least I thought I did.”
“Hmmm. Okay. I don’t remember. But right now, that’s not important. A major storm caused a mess. Hail broke a window, and a large tree branch fell on the roof. Let’s talk later about the trunk. Love you, Mom.”
I went to the living room and joined Laura on the couch.
The journal had a distinct smell. I couldn’t describe the odor other than old and musty. My pulse quickened. I was holding a piece of Pepperman history in my hands. History I knew nothing about.
Carefully taking the book from me, Laura released the metal clasp and opened the stiff binding. “It’s written in German.” Her tone was tainted with disappointment.
I chuckled. “Gee, how inconsiderate of Hans to write his journal in his native language.”
She slapped my leg with an open hand.
I took the journal. “I studied German in high school and college.”
“Okay, Mr. Linguist, I know you can swear in German. I’ve heard some words spill out when the boys upset you. But how much actual, useful German do you understand?”
After shooting off my mouth to impress my wife, could I really read what my cousin had written? I turned to the opening page, sweating just a little. I guessed we’d find out.
Chapter 2
der 24. Juli 1936
Berlin, Germany
Three months ago, I was named the heavyweight contender to represent Germany in boxing during the 1936 Summer Olympic Games. I cannot help but wonder how it might feel to hear “Hans Pepperman” called out during the medal ceremony. My good friend, Herbert Runge, is first alternate. A week before the Olympics, the training regimen has tapered off, but the constant ache in my knuckle has not…
I hit the heavy punching bag with a hard-right cross. A sharp sting bit me like a pit viper. Intuition rattled my brain with negative thoughts. There was nothing good about the pain in my hand. Nothing good.
An hour later, an x-ray confirmed my suspicion and revealed a shattered knuckle.
Devastated couldn’t begin to explain my disappointment. Back in my room at the training facility, I kicked over a chair. “All the sparring.” I ripped the covers off my bed. “All the running.” My muscles twitched. “All the sweat.” Heat flushed through my body. “All the long hours.” I slapped a newspaper off the desk with my good hand. The pages fluttered and twisted to the floor. “For nothing.” I screamed and cursed until Runge ran into my room and grabbed me around the chest.
We had only been friends for a few months, but his presence calmed me as I sat on the bare mattress. “What will I tell Mama and Papa? And Papa’s brother, Uncle Wilhelm, and his ten-year-old son Patrick who have come from the United States to watch me? I let them down.” My eyes clouded. It was all I could do to hold back the tears.
Runge pulled up a chair across from me. He didn’t try to give me answers. He listened, which was exactly what I needed. Exactly what a good friend would do.
Chapter 3
der 1. August 1936
Berlin, Germany
Life never seems fair, but that is nothing new. My Olympic experience has been taken away, but I have been raised to face life’s challenges head-on and not wallow in self-pity—so I am dressing in my uniform to march in the opening ceremony…
People wearing their finest filled the seventy-thousand-seat arena. Both men and women wore white straw hats, the women’s tilted to one side. Hand-painted wooden boxes overflowing with yellow, orange, and purple flowers lined the entrance. Flags of bright red, black, and white swayed in the summer breeze—the perfect weather for competition.
Overhead, whispering propellers gently pushed the Hindenburg across the blue sky and through a low-hanging cloud. Watching left me with an uneasy feeling. My chemistry professor had lectured about the dangers of using the flammable hydrogen instead of much safer helium. I closed my eyes, my breathing shallow and heavy. But I couldn’t escape my erratic heartbeat or the image of that massive airship bursting into flames. Could it happen?
Struggling to rein in the horrible visual, I exhaled and focused on the German National anthem playing over the speakers. Forcing a smile, I nodded at Herbert Runge next to me.
“It’s a great day to be a German.” His chest swelled, and I felt his pride. “I’m honored to be representing my country, but it’s bittersweet.” He nodded toward my cast. “I’m sorry for your broken hand.”
“I ask one thing, Herbert.” I adjusted my hat, pulling it snug with my good hand. “Win the gold medal.” What could have been, what should have been, my glory.
He placed his right fist over his heart and pounded. “I will not let you or my country down.” Standing tall, he angled his chin upward in a show of determination.
If anyone had to replace me, I was glad the honor went to Runge. He had the will to win the gold. I hoped he had the skill. My loss was one thing but Germany’s was another.
Across the arena, twenty-five thousand pigeons were being readied for release. When I’d read the article this morning in the Berliner newspaper, the number had astounded me. But as the cage doors opened and the birds shot skyward, my expectation was nothing compared to the actual event.
“Herbert, look.” I pointed up.
With that many birds, I’d anticipated at least one mid-air collision. Not so. They scattered without a single mishap until the five-cannon salute.
The blast echoed off the concrete walls, bunching the flock together and—splat, splat, splat—scaring the poop out of them. Groans filled the stadium as people brushed blobs of white and black scheisse off their clothing.
Fortunately, my uniform and hat collected the junk. Some weren’t so lucky. Their heads suffered the consequences.
So did Herbert. A glob of poop perched on his nose and another on his chin. He laughed and flicked the mess off his face.
“Be serious,” I said. “Today is historic. This is the first time the Olympic flame has been relayed by runners all the way from Greece to the host city.”
He looked over. “Ja wohl. I’m glad Germany is the first country for this special event. Over thirty-three hundred relayed the torch.” Runge tilted his head from side to side. “You and I could have done it ourselves.”
I gave him a good-natured slap on the back of his head. “Maybe with two or three more boxers.”
Runge responded by thumbing his nose.
Today was a great day. Athletes from all over the world gathered to compete in friendly competition—a good thing. I looked forward to making new friends, especially from the American team.
