Feast For A Killer

Borislav stood, his back against a thick tree trunk, concealed in the shadows, and watched the small residence. He had already confirmed that she was home alone, being very intimate with her schedule. He knew quite a good deal about her and her husband, the usual reconnaissance and surveillance.

It was now time to act, to complete his contract, so Borislav quickly moved toward the front door.

Olivia wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer the knock at the door. Alluring aromas wafted from the kitchen throughout the house and Olivia smiled as she walked down the short hall to the front door.

She opened the door, seeing a handsome, Slavic-looking man there, clad in a leather overcoat. Olivia smiled and said softly, “Hello, can I help you?”

The short, dark-haired man remained silent but withdrew a silenced pistol from his coat, pointed it at Olivia and walked into the house as Olivia slowly backed up. Once inside, he closed the door, the weapon never wavering from Olivia.

With a slight accent, the man spoke in a firm voice. “Olivia, I will kill you unless you obey my every word. I am not here to kill you but will do so if I must. We will sit and wait for your husband to return home.”

Quivering, Olivia simply nodded. She could not fathom why this killer was here or why he wanted Jude, her husband. Jude was an accountant, working for a large corporation, and he was not even one of the top accountants there. He was a mild-mannered person, whose hobbies included bridge and golf. Could it be all a terrible mistake? But the killer obviously knew her name, which made her extremely nervous.

Olivia felt that maybe cooking would help calm her nerves, as it had done in the past. It seemed better than just sitting quietly with this killer, waiting for Jude to arrive.

“Please sir, can I finish my cooking? I am working on several dishes and I don’t want anything to burn.” Said Olivia softly.

The killer pondered it for a moment and replied, “Yes, that is acceptable. We can wait in the kitchen. Lead the way.”

The kitchen doubled as a dining area and the killer sat down at the table, placing his pistol atop it, within easy reach. Olivia went back to the stove, stirring the soup and checking on the items baking in the oven. She willed her hands to stop shaking, trying to immerse herself in the culinary preparations. Why did this man want to kill Jude?

“Mmmmm…whatever you are cooking smells wonderful. Are you making cabbage soup?” asked the killer.

Olivia, her mouth dry, hesitated and then responded, “Yes, it is shchi, a recipe I learned from my Russian grandmother.”

“Shchi da kasha pishcha nasha.” Shchi and porridge are our food.

“Are you Russian?” asked Olivia.

“Yes, though I was born in the U.S. What else are you making?” He did not mention how he grew up with his grandmother’s cooking, very traditional Russian. Since she had passed, it had been very difficult to find anything that delicious but the smell of Olivia’s shchi reminded him of his grandmother’s kitchen.

“Kotlety, kartoshka puree, and medovnik for dessert.”

“It certainly sounds like a fine meal.”

As Olivia immersed herself in her culinary duties, the killer, Borislav, intensely watched her. She was attractive, especially her sultry dark eyes, and Borislav enjoyed the way her body moved as she worked. She exuded femininity in her every movement, the gentle sway of her body, her delicate maneuvers. Over the time he had surveilled her, Borislave had noticed her simmering sensuality as well. She was a woman of passion and intensity.

All of that was being wasted on her husband, a man fully undeserving of such a treasure. Borislav was pleased that he would be eliminating her husband, freeing her. In retrospect, he hoped that she would eventually realize the gift he was presenting her.

Olivia gently stirred the shchi and then took a taste of the broth, pleased with its taste. “The soup is ready if you would like a bowl.”

“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” Responded the killer, very eager to taste it.

Olivia retrieved a large bowl from a nearby shelf and then ladled some of the savory shchi into the bowl, ensuring there was plenty of cabbage in the bowl. She topped it with a generous dollop of sour cream and then turned and walked over to the table, slightly hesitating.

There was the temptation to hurl the hot contents into the killer’s face, which might then give her the opportunity to escape. But, if she failed, he might kill her right then and there. Or worse, dependent on his level of sadism.

Rather than risk anything, she placed the bowl before the killer and retrieved him a spoon. She stood by, waiting to see what he thought of the soup.

Borislav had been alert for potential treachery, cognizant of the threat of the steaming broth, and had been prepared to react. He was very pleased that Olivia had restrained her impulse. He looked at the soup, a smile coming to his face as the aromas caressed his nose. His spoon dipped into the broth, scooping up some of the leafy cabbage and sour cream.

Slowly, he carefully moved the spoon into his mouth, wanting to relish the moment. The savory broth and vegetables instantly brought back memories of his childhood and he couldn’t remember the last time something had done that to him. Such a simple dish, yet it had been executed perfectly, the soup bursting with the fresh flavors of the field. She really knew how to cook.

After several spoonfuls, he looked up at Olivia and said, “It is excellent, very much like what my grandmother prepared.

Olivia smiled. “Thank you. My own grandmother was a fine teacher.” Though he frightened her, his compliment still pleased her.

She then turned and went back to the stove, checking on the kotlety, meat patties, which were slowly baking in the oven. She still needed to mash the kartoshka, potatoes, as well.

Borislav eagerly ate the rest of the soup, enjoying every mouthful. He continued to watch Olivia work, curious as to what had attracted her to her husband. There were some gaps in his knowledge of Olivia, but nothing that would interfere with his mission. Under different circumstances, she would have been the type of woman he would pursue.

As Olivia worked, mashing some potatoes, she finally gathered the courage to ask, “Why are you going to kill my husband? He is a good man.”

No answer was expected, but she felt obliged to ask anyways. She certainly could not imagine any reason why her husband was a threat to anyone, or who he might have offended. Desperately, she hoped it was a mistake. And maybe, just maybe, the killer would realize that fact.

“You are better off not knowing. Keep your memories pure.” Said the killer.

This was reassuring to a point, as Olivia thus surmised that the killer might not also shoot her. But she decided to press him anyway, her curiosity high, as well as her hope that it was all in error. “I would rather know the truth, than believe my husband might have been killed due to some terrible mistake. Could you possibly have the wrong man?”

“Let me think on it.” Said the killer.

Olivia nodded, removing the pan of kotlety from the oven and then returning to the potatoes. She tried to lose herself in the cooking, to forget about the assassin behind her. But she was not completely successful.

Borislav watched Olivia, enjoying the curves of her body as she worked. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed the intimate pleasures of a woman, beside the soulless embrace of a prostitute. Should he tell her the reasons for his presence? She would not like what he had to say, not in the least, but maybe she deserved to know the truth.

This time Olivia did not ask, before presenting the killer with a plate of hot kotlety and a puree of kartoshka, with plenty of butter. Borislav grinned, admiring the hearty plate before him, wasting no time to dig in. Once again, the food reminded me of his childhood, of his grandmother’s fine meals. The meat patties were extremely flavorful, spiced appropriately, and perfectly moist. The potatoes were creamy and light, with sweet butter complementing the taste.

“Wonderful. Thank you once again.” Said Borislav after a few bites.

Olivia smiled and went back to the stove and counter to complete the medovnik, honey cake. She still needed to frost a layer of sour cream atop it. She took her time, knowing there was nothing else to do once she finished the honey cake.

Soon, the killer’s plate was empty, each delicious bite having been finished. He smiled contentedly, the food having pleased him in a way he had not known in quite some time. Such an alluring woman, who cooked so well. Yes, she deserved the truth, as hard as it might be.

“Your husband is known as Volk, the wolf. He is a terrible predator and I was hired to make him pay for his crimes.”

Olivia whipped around, denial and shock on her face. “What crimes is he supposed to have committed? My husband is a mild man, a simple accountant.”

“Your husband is a pedophile who has molested dozens of small girls.”

Her jaw dropped and Olivia was struck speechless. She began trembling more, her world crashing down around her. There had to be a mistake, an explanation for everything. It just could not be true.

She finally forced out, her voice quivering, “It cannot be my husband.”

Borislav reached into his pocket and removed a thick envelope. He then removed about a dozen photographs and spread them out on the table so Olivia could see all of them. They were very incriminating photographs, though in half of them, you could not identify the man in them. Just the faces of the young girls. But in the others, the face of the man was quite clear, as well as all of his naked body.

Olivia moaned loudly in horror as she looked at the disturbing and pornographic photographs, recognizing her husband Jude. “No, no, no.” Tears started streaming down her soft cheeks.

“A father of one of the victims hired me. He is a wealthy man and did not want to leave this to the courts. He wants your husband dead for the depraved acts he has committed.”

As she thought about her husband, their life together, and the accusations being made about him, she remembered tiny indicators. Small, subtle signs that alone meant little, but when taken as a whole, seemed to support the accusations. But it was only in retrospect that they took form. It was nothing she could have predicted or known earlier.

She wanted to deny the photos, to claim they were fakes, but she could not. In her gut, she knew it to be true. It sickened her, and it took all her will not to vomit.

“I am sorry for you. It would be a hard truth for anyone.” Said Borislav.

Olivia turned back to her honey cake, wiping her tears away. She couldn’t face the killer at the moment, and tried to think only of frosting the honey cake, of finishing the meal. She couldn’t deal with what she had seen.

Borislav just watched her, understanding her anguish. She would be better off when the monster was dead. Though he wanted to embrace her, to soothe her anguish, he needed to maintain his professional detachment. In time, she would heal.

She finally finished the honey cake, after frosting the same spot for several minutes, and placed it on the table before Borislav. Retrieving a plate, fork and large cake knife, she then sliced a thick piece for the killer.

After serving him, she turned to clean up her mess. She couldn’t look at the killer right now. She didn’t want to see anything at the moment. To do so would mean she would have to confront the truth, that her husband was a sociopath.

Borislav dug into the cake, heartily enjoying its rich sweetness and the creaminess of the sour cream. It was a superb dessert, with intriguing spices that tantalized his senses. He closed his eyes as he savored each bite, letting the flavors flow over his palate. Pure bliss!

There was a very loud bang as a revolver fired, the bullet plowing through Borislav’s temple. Borislav collapsed onto the table, crushing the remnants of his honey cake, his blood and brains decorating the wall behind him. The assassin never saw the person who killed him.

“Are you okay honey?” said Jude, Olivia’s husband, who held a revolver, the same gun that had just killed Borislav.

Olivia had turned as soon as the gun fired, shocked to see her husband as well as the now deceased assassin slumped over the table. Olivia nodded to Jude because she didn’t know what else to do or say.

“When I arrived home, I met our neighbor Larry outside and he returned the shovel he recently borrowed. I took it back to our shed and then peered into the kitchen window, to see what you might be cooking. Instead, I saw that man with the gun, so I snuck into the house. Did he hurt you?” said Jude.

Jude look mild mannered, like what you pictured an accountant to be. But he had obviously little trouble shooting a stranger, killing him. Olivia noticed that he was not shaking, in fact he seemed quite at ease.

Jude slipped his pistol into his waistband and walked over to Olivia, his arms open to embrace her. But she turned away from him, moving toward the kitchen table.

“What is wrong?” asked Jude, very confused.

Olivia then turned back toward her husband, and it took him a few moments to notice she now held a black pistol aimed at his stomach, the weapon which had previously belonged to the assassin.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said as his own hand slowly moved down to the grip of his gun.

Gathering her courage, as well as outrage, Olivia said coldly, “Do not touch your gun or I will shoot. And I am completely serious.”

Jude’s hand stopped, realizing the dark intensity in Olivia’s eyes. He had never seen such hate and anger in her eyes. He started to worry a bit, very confused as he thought he had just saved his wife from some thug.

With much vehemence, she spat out, “You are a damn pedophile! I saw the pictures. How could you harm all of those little girls? You sicken me.”

In full defensive mode, Jude wondered how to answer her accusations. He could try to deny it but didn’t think she would believe him. Somehow she knew the truth. He felt that the best way to handle her would be to try to gain her sympathy. At least long enough until he could disarm her and then of course she would have to die, a “victim” of the assassin.

“I am so sorry Olivia. I am a very sick man and I need treatment, to see a doctor. I just can’t control my impulses. Please help me, I need you so much right now.” His voice was weak and pitiful, intended to appeal to Olivia’s gentle nature, while he calculated how to get the pistol out of her hand.

“Thank you, I needed your confirmation.” Olivia then pulled the trigger several times, unloading bullet after bullet into her husband. She had no sympathy for this monster.

Jude’s bloody body collapsed to the floor, clearly dead.

Olivia dropped the gun, sobbing uncontrollably, and grieving for the assassin who had so loved her cooking.